


Boy Without A Face

by anomalously



Series: The Way It Is [1]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Art Student Mickey, English Major Ian, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Smut, M/M, Pining, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, past and present abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-25
Updated: 2015-06-15
Packaged: 2018-04-01 06:32:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 32,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4009498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anomalously/pseuds/anomalously
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>College AU where Ian Gallagher takes one look at Mickey Milkovich and decides that he kind of has to have him. Slow burn, confusion, eye-fucking and kind of a Romeo&Romeo flavored story, I guess...?</p><p>This is not a full flowing type of story, but simply moments. (if that makes sense, you guys I'm sorry, I can't summarize worth a crap)</p><p>Additional tags/warnings/characters to be added when necessary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. September

**Author's Note:**

> A couple things:
> 
> 1\. Mickey might come across as slightly OOC in his demeanor. Maybe? idk My point is, he's a little more chill in this. Bordering on a little defeated because of Terry. He's still Mick though.
> 
> 2\. It might be very obvious to some of you that I did not go to college and therefore, I am kind of winging that aspect of it. Sorry for any mistakes on that end, but I'm trying! (it's not even a big part of the story but eh, still)

Ian had been at a bar the first time he saw Mickey Milkovich. It was a shitty little bar called Shooters right outside of the college campus, smelled like stale beer and peanuts, the televisions blasting the football game. Not a lot of the college students hung out there, making it the perfect place to just chill.

At the time, Ian didn't know his name, just knew he was drawn to him, liked the way he moved and the way his tongue darted out to wet his lips every so often. It looked like there was something tattooed on his knuckles, but from where he sat, Ian couldn't see what it was. Mickey had been playing pool with a couple other guys, laughing and shit-talking, drinking pints of beer. 

He was kind of beautiful, kind of hard to look away from. 

Okay so he was _really_ fucking beautiful. He had these _eyes_ and this _mouth_ and the line of his nose was perfect… but when he smiled and laughed, Ian didn't want Mickey to stop _ever_.

Ian went from _I’d like to take that guy home right now_ to _I want to know every single thing about that guy_ in a matter of a couple minutes of just staring. It was a really weird feeling. He’d never had that urge before, not this suddenly.

Ian was sitting at the bar with his brother Lip —he was getting ready to graduate soon and they made it a point to go out at least once a week to just chill, away from all the college bullshit. He must have been staring for longer than what most people would deem appropriate, because Lip elbowed him in the ribs to get his attention. 

“You’re coming up to that line between appreciating what you see and looking like a fucking stalker, man.”

Ian turned his head to look at his brother, “Who’s that guy?” 

“That’s uh… I wanna say his name is Mickey. I’ve never talked to the guy; I’ve seen him around at parties and shit. He’s probably an asshole like his dad though,” Lip answered.

Mickey. Ian turned the name over in his mind like a stone. “His dad?”

“Yeah,” Lip said. “Terry Milk..ovich?”

“Terry Milkovich…?”

Lip nodded, “Yeah, he’s a new football coach. Assistant coach or some shit, I dunno. All I know is my buddy says the guy’s a fucking psycho. I’m pretty sure Mickey’s straight, though.”

“Why do you think that?”

Lip shrugged, “I dunno, just look at him. Doesn't look gay to me.”

“Do I look gay to you? What does that mean?” Ian narrowed his eyes at his brother, “Is there like a gay code of conduct or something I don't know about?”

“I dunno, is there?” Lip shot back with a grin.

Ian rolled his eyes, taking a sip of his beer before looking back over at Mickey. Obviously they guy didn’t play football or care much to support his dad while he coached, since he was at a bar and not at the game.

He had nice arms. And legs, from what he could tell. And a _nice_ ass; Ian tilted his head to the side, watching as Mickey leaned over the pool table to take his shot. Real nice ass. Fuck Ian hoped he was gay —at the very least bisexual.

“You’re doing it again,” Lip laughed.

“I’m gonna ask him out,” Ian decided, nodding his head.

Lip rolled his eyes, “Like I said, pretty sure he’s straight. And my buddy said dad is a fucking _crazy_ homophobe. There’s probably easier ass to pull than his. Ian?” Lip knocked his arm against his, “Seriously man. What if he is straight —or worse, like his dad? Then what?”

“Then I back off,” Ian shrugged, unable to look away from Mickey. “Just hold on, lemme see something.”

Lip was probably right, but there was just something about the guy that had Ian drawn to him like he was a fucking moth and Mickey was the bug-lamp.

Mickey must have felt Ian staring at him. He turned, catching his eyesight, his brows perching up high on his forehead in that _what the fuck do you want_ way. Ian smirked at Mickey, taking his chance. Mickey smirked back, his tongue darting to the corner of his mouth.

Ian turned back to face the bar and took a deep breath, ignoring his brother’s eyes. “You look pleased with yourself,” Lip said.

Ian just nodded, taking a drink of his beer. 

 

* * *

 

The second time that Ian saw Mickey Milkovich, it had been at the same bar a week later. But this time, he wasn't playing pool and Lip wasn’t around. Ian would have been lying if he said that he didn't come to the shitty bar hoping there was an off-chance he’d see Mickey again.

Mickey was sitting at the bar alone, half-full pint of beer in front of him. Ian took a deep breath and sat on the stool next to the brunette, ordering a pint for himself. Mickey didn't say anything, just kept his eyes fixed on his beer, his elbows resting on the bar top, cigarette dangling from his lips. 

Ian kept silent, glancing over at Mickey’s hands, seeing the FUCK U-UP inked into his skin; his fingertips looked like they were stained with paint —blues and reds and greens. He said, “I like your tattoos,” before he could stop himself.

That time Mickey looked over at him, his blue eyes narrowing slightly, probably trying to discern if Ian was fucking with him or not. He was even more beautiful up close. Ian bit the inside of his cheek before he did something stupid like keep talking.

“Uh, thanks,” Mickey said, but it sounded more like a question. 

Ian liked the sound of his voice, wondered what it would sound like a little softer, a little breathier. He was getting too far ahead of himself.

“I think I saw you in here last week,” Ian said. “Playing pool?”

“Sounds about right,” Mickey nodded. He pulled on his cigarette before taking it out from between his lips. Ian never wanted to be a cigarette before. 

Ian wasn’t normally this fucking bad —or awkward— when it came to small-talk. Believe it or not, his game was normally on point, much better than _I think I saw you in here last week_ like some fucking stalker. 

The problem was, as soon as Ian had sat down next to Mickey, all his previous knowledge of any kind of _game_ he once had just flew out of the window. He felt himself revert to that awkward fourteen year old trying to navigate whether or not a boy in his class was gay.

“I’m Ian,” he held out his hand, feeling more and more like an idiot; he couldn't even _try_ to stop though. “Ian Gallagher.”

“Mickey,” he glanced down at Ian’s hand before looking back up at him, with a little noncommittal shrug, adding on his last name like he didn't understand why the last names were important but he was doing it too because Ian had started it.

Ian nodded, taking his hand back, rethinking whatever happened last week. Maybe he was giving his hopes up, maybe the smirk last week was just a _wow this guy is a creepy idiot_ smirk and not a _you like what you see? I like what I see too_ smirk.

“So you’re Coach Milkovich’s son, huh?”

Mickey let out a long sigh, “Yeah. But if you’re looking for an in to talk to him for some fucking try-out or tickets for your family or something else, don’t fucking bother, man.”

Ian’s eyes widened at his rough response, “I don’t even like football.”

Mickey looked over at him and grinned slow, his eyes dragging over Ian’s face and shoulders. He took one last pull on his cigarette before stubbing it out in the plastic ashtray next to where he sat, “Me neither.”

Ian felt heat on the back of his neck, “You in here a lot?”

That time Mickey laughed, his face pulling out that smile that Ian had been craving to see since last week, nose crinkling a little. “Is that the best you got? You come here often? Damn. Thought I was special.”

Ian laughed, but it came out all nervous, “I could uh… I could make it up to you.”

Great. How vague and even creepier than _I think I saw you in here last week_.

Mickey’s eyes dragged over Ian’s face again, then up to his hair and back down to his mouth, lingering for a moment; Ian heated under his gaze, feeling tension creep up his spine. Knowingly or not, Mickey’s tongue darted out to wet his lips. Ian really hoped his mouth wasn’t hanging open, because it kind of felt like it was.

But then the brunette quirked his brows upwards and downed the last of his beer, “I’m sure you could. Thing is… I ain’t like that, man.”

Wait… what? Then tension fizzled out like a deflated balloon; Ian’s stomach completely bottomed out. Had he been imagining Mickey’s — _what he thought was_ — obvious eye-fucking? 

“Shit, I’m sorry,” Ian sighed, running a hand over his hair. Talk about being really off on his game, now he was tricking himself into thinking straight guys were checking him out. It had been too long since Ian had gotten laid… obviously.

“Don’t worry about it,” Mickey said, slapping down a wad of cash on the bar top before he slid off the stool. He clapped a hand on Ian’s shoulder, squeezing lightly before letting go, “See you around, Red.”

And then he left. Just left.

Ian probably stared at where Mickey had been sitting for a good five minutes, replaying every detail of the entire exchange over and over, before he pulled a face, “What the fuck?”

 

* * *

 

In a stroke of absolute genius, Ian thought he could get away with schedulingtwo Wednesday classes back-to-back with a ten minute window between them… when it took at least _fifteen_ minutes to walk from one to another. 

This always ended in Ian having to sprint most of the way, stomach growling relentlessly because it was lunchtime and he wasn't exactly reliable with getting breakfast every morning. 

Fortunately this time, he had thought ahead and shoved a power-bar in his backpack.

Unfortunately, there was literally no time to stop for two seconds and retrieve the power-bar from the front pocket of his backpack.

So while Ian was walking, trying to open his backpack, and still hold onto a bottle of water, of course he fucking ran into someone. And of course that someone had to be Mickey Milkovich.

“Whoa,” Mickey said, gripping onto Ian’s shoulders before either one of them fell over from the collision. “Where’s the fucking fire, Red?”

Ian felt his face fall and heat up at the same time. Truth be told, he normally wasn't a huge fan of that nickname. But when Mickey said it, it didn't sound like he was trying to make a joke, it had the same weight as _dude_ or _man_. 

“Sorry, I’m uh… I wasn’t looking.”

Mickey still had his hands on Ian’s shoulders. Ian was trying to ignore how his stomach flipped, how good Mickey looked in the black shirt he was wearing, how fucking late he was going to be to his class. And he was really trying to ignore how badly his body wanted to react to the shorter man.

“It’s cool,” Mickey shrugged, his hands slipping from Ian’s shoulders. Ian wished they had stayed.

The brunette was doing that not-eye-fucking eye-fucking thing again, this time letting his gaze drop all the way down to Ian’s shoes and back up, his tongue darting out, making Ian think _really_ awful things. 

“You good?”

Ian nodded, reaching into his backpack for his power-bar, distracting himself from Mickey’s wandering blue eyes. “Yeah, just gonna be late.”

“Can’t have that,” Mickey smirked, adjusting his bag’s shoulder-strap. 

Ian needed to move, but he couldn’t, watching Mickey take a step back and turn around to walk the other way.

Then he was gone. And Ian was, of course, late to class.

 


	2. October

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian gave a nervous laugh, shifting on his feet. Mickey gave him one of those once-over’s, raking his eyes up and down, wetting his lips. Part of Ian wished he wouldn't do that anymore. It fucked with his head. But Mickey was obviously high as shit and either didn't care or didn't realize what he was doing. (Not that he caring or realizing seemed to matter to Mickey when he wasn’t high, though.)

It was pretty fair to say that Ian hated his job. But it was the only thing he could find last minute that paid him just enough to help him keep living in his own shitty little studio apartment. He also made some extra cash here and there picking up other odd jobs, but this job was his little _sure thing_. Even if he couldn't find extra work for a little bit, at least he had this. Which was more than a lot of other people could say. So when it came down to it, even though Ian hated his job, he was grateful.

He especially hated his job when he had to come to these apartment buildings that were known for being packed with other college kids. You’d think that a struggling student could appreciate another struggling student’s efforts to make a buck. But that wasn't always the case. People are assholes.

Ian knocked on the door in front of him, looking down at the slip of paper in his hand while he waited for it to open. He was exhausted.

“I got two large extra-cheeses, one with pepperoni,” Ian sighed when he heard the door swing open. He was hit with that dank weed smell. “That’s gonna be—”

“Well ain’t this a bad porno waiting to fucking happen.”

Ian felt his stomach bottom out as he looked up from the receipt, “Oh shit.”

Mickey grinned at him, eyes bloodshot and narrowed slightly, “Didn’t know you were a pizza boy, Red.”

Ian’s shoulders slumped as he handed Mickey the pizza boxes. This wasn't even remotely cool. “Yeah well, gotta pay for shit somehow,” he mumbled.

“You’ve never delivered to me before, have you?” Mickey furrowed his brows. “I mean, I’ve only been here a couple months, but still.”

Ian shook his head, weirdly enough, he hadn’t.

“Mickey! Hurry up!” a girls voice called from somewhere inside the apartment.

“Ay, why don’t you get off your fucking ass and come get this shit! And bring the money, it’s on the table!” Mickey hollered back, rolling his eyes at Ian, “Fucking harpy, man.”

Ian gave a nervous laugh, shifting on his feet. Mickey gave him one of those once-over’s, raking his eyes up and down, wetting his lips. Part of Ian wished he wouldn't do that anymore. It fucked with his head. But Mickey was obviously high as shit and either didn't care or didn't realize what he was doing. (Not that he caring or realizing seemed to matter to Mickey when he _wasn’t_ high, though.) 

A girl came up from behind Mickey, trading him the pizza boxes for money. Her black hair was piled up on top of her head and her nose ring glinted in the light. She was beautiful, _because of course she was_. 

Then she caught sight of Ian and she stopped in her tracks, grinning at him with narrowed, bloodshot eyes, “Hello gorgeous.” She looked between Ian and Mickey, “Mickey, he’s _gorgeous_. Look at that _hair_ , and that face. What’s your name?”

Ian felt his face go white hot. Before he could answer though, Mickey told her, “His name is keep it in your fucking pants.”

“Ugh,” the girl rolled her eyes and tilted her head back. Then she gave Ian a wicked grin, “He’s _so_ territorial.”

Mickey shook his head, running a hand over his hair, “Shut up and go get the fucking movie ready. Iggy and Colin are gonna be here. Fucking stoner.”

He finally handed Ian the money for the pizza. “Uh, thanks,” Ian said, a bit awkwardly. 

Before could completely turn from the door and walk away, he felt a hand wrap around his forearm, stalling him. It only lasted a moment, but the hold had been strong and sure, fingers pressing into his skin. He could have sworn that Mickey’s thumb moved in a little circle against his skin; Ian wished that Mickey kept his had there. 

“You uh… you wanna come in for a beer or something?” Mickey asked, raising his brows. “We’re gonna watch Super Troopers and get high. High _er,_ ” he chuckled.

“I can’t, man. Got two more deliveries,” Ian lied, scratching the back of his neck. There was no way in hell he wanted to stick around for this shit and feel worse about having a stupid fucking crush a straight guy. “Thanks though.”

Mickey waved a dismissive hand, “Shit, that’s right. You just brought the pizza’s. I’m fucking stupid when I’m high, sorry.”

“Mickey! I can’t find the fucking movie —oh nevermind!”

Ian grinned when Mickey let out a frustrated groan, “I should take care of this shit before she fucking breaks something.”

Ian nodded. He kind of liked Mickey when he was high; he was kind of hilarious and a bit more talkative, “Have fun.”

Mickey waved as he shut the door, “You too, Red.”

 

* * *

 

[Ian: 11:04 PM] Pretty sure Mickey has a gf.  
[Ian: 11:04 PM] She’s pretty.  
[Ian: 11:05 PM] Like really pretty.

[Lip: 11:08 PM] Damn. Sorry bro.

[Ian: 11:09 PM] I think she hit on me? Like in front of him. It was kind of awkward.

[Lip: 11:12 PM] Maybe they’re swingers?

[Ian: 11:15 PM] Oh god. No thank you.   
[Ian: 11:15 PM] I guess I’m hoping off the Mickey train.

[Lip: 11:16 PM] Halloween party coming up. Get some ass there.

[Ian: 11:16 PM] Eh…

[Lip: 11:18 PM] Lots of frat boys. Probably easy pickin’s.

[Ian: 11:30 PM] Fine. I’ll take one for the team.

[Lip: 11:34 PM] lol there he is.

 

* * *

 

The next time Ian saw Mickey had been in the library. They quite literally ran into each other, _again_. Ian hoped that this wouldn't be a pattern.

Except this time, Mickey shoved Ian away from him, his eyes were hard —one of which ringed in deep bruising. He had a cut above his eyebrow too, and a scrape across his jaw. The marks stood out starkly against his pale skin. Ian’s stomach tensed up; he frowned at the sight of Mickey’s beautiful face damaged like that. 

“Fucking watch yourself,” Mickey warned, hissing softly as he held his left side.

He didn't mean to ask, “What happened to you?” but he did.

“What’s it fucking look like? Mind your own damn business.”

Ian furrowed his brows as he watched the shorter man walk away.

 

* * *

 

Music pulsed through the house. Ian didn't know whose house it was but Lip did, bringing him to this Halloween party that, thank god, a costume wasn’t even a requirement. 

Ian was three beers in, making his rounds, bobbing his head to the music. He’d lost Lip ages ago, but Ian was a big boy now, he could navigate a party without his older brother having to supervise him.

While he walked down a surprisingly empty hallway, a shirtless guy stumbled out of a door to his left. He had a stupid grin plastered on his handsome face and was wiping at the corners of his mouth. Ian raised a brow and smirked at the obvious post blow-job swollen lips and mused hair.

But his face fell when he saw who walked out of the door behind the shirtless guy, zipping up his fly. Mickey _non-eye-fuck eye-fuck_ Milkovich, with this satisfied, blissed-out look on his face; the bruising around his eye almost gone. For a moment, Ian was almost positive that he was either more drunk than he thought or hallucinating. Possibly both.

When Mickey’s eyes landed on Ian, he lifted his chin towards him in greeting and wet his lips. Ian couldn't even attempt to string a couple of words together, let alone nod back to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gah. I know this is ridiculously short, sorry! Guess that's what happens when the chapters go month-by-month.  
> Believe it or not, it was much shorter before.
> 
> also lol Ian the pizza boy. idk why that makes me laugh so much.
> 
> I'm gonna try to update this monday - wednesday - friday?


	3. November

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey must have sensed Ian’s irritation, because he grabbed ahold of his upper arm; he had dried paint smeared on his hand again. “Ay, I’m just messing with you, Gallagher.”
> 
> That was the problem. “I know,” Ian said, flattening against the wall so Mickey could step by him.

Ian was coming out of the Shooters bathroom when he saw Mickey again. It was over a week after the Halloween party. He’d had over a week to keep running through every interaction with Mickey. 

Over a week to think about catching Mickey and that shirtless guy post-blowjob —it had been fucking obvious what had happened in that room before they stumbled out into the hallway. Over a week to take into account every heated eye-fucking, and the _touching_ , and the licking of the lips. Then there was the _I Ain’t like that, man,_ and the girl at Mickey’s apartment, and Ian was just left floating in _what the fuck_ land.

Mickey was headed into the bathroom while Ian was headed out. The shorter man gave Ian one of those slow amused smiles as they did an awkward shuffle-dance in the middle of the hallway, trying to get around each other. Ian could have sworn that Mickey was purposely stepping where he had, to make the situation worse.

“Sorry,” Ian mumbled, getting frustrated because fuck this guy. 

If Mickey was straight, fine. If he wasn’t attracted to him, then that was okay too, Ian wasn’t going to get all bent out of shape because someone didn't find him attractive or whatever. It was the messing with his head like this that was just fucking ridiculous. 

Mickey must have sensed Ian’s irritation, because he grabbed ahold of his upper arm; he had dried paint smeared on his hand again. “Ay, I’m just messing with you, Gallagher.”

That was the problem. “I know,” Ian said, flattening against the wall so Mickey could step by him.

Mickey raised his brows high. He opened his mouth to say something before shutting it and shaking his head, disappearing into the bathroom.

 

* * *

 

Ian had met Alex at the Halloween party. Alex was a cool guy, if not a little… well, he was nice to look at, very cute with longish sandy blonde hair and dark eyes, but not much beyond that. The only thing they had in common was a clear understanding that there was nothing between them beyond fucking. 

So when Ian got home from Shooters, he called Alex. They fucked furiously a couple times. It was partly out of spite and it made him feel kind of shitty afterwards. He couldn't stop thinking of Mickey’s eyes dragging over his body, couldn't stop thinking of that slow smirk or the way he said _Gallagher_.

He really wished he could stop thinking of Mickey.

 

* * *

 

Ian passed the girl from Mickey’s apartment on the way into the gym. She was walking out, hair in a high ponytail, skin shiny from sweat. She beamed at him, her nose crinkling as she did. 

She reached out, squeezing his shoulder as they passed each other, “Hello gorgeous.”

He didn't want to smile, but he did.

 

* * *

 

Headphones on, Ian had a nice spread at a table in the library. Notebooks marred with highlighter marks over his messy handwriting were stacked and opened up around him. He had a research paper on child day care in low-income neighborhoods that needed to be done before Thanksgiving. Thankfully Fiona, the queen of everything to do with child-rearing on a near nonexistent budget, let him ask her a million and one questions over the phone. But for something he was pretty well acquainted with, it was stressing him out.

It probably didn't help that the only source of nutrients that day came from two energy drinks and a bag of chips. His stomach was creeping up on that point where it threatened to eat itself.

While he was paging through one of his notebooks, someone sat across from him. Ian didn’t look up until a hand with U-UP tattooed on it’s knuckles reached between him and his notebook and snapped it’s fingers.

Ian looked up, keeping his face passive and his voice low, “Usually when someone has headphones on, that means they want to be left alone.”

Mickey rubbed at his bottom lip with his thumb and shrugged.

Ian sighed, taking his headphones off and paused his music. “You need something?”   

“What crawled up your ass and died?” Mickey sniffed.

“I got a lot of work to do,” Ian replied.

“What’re you working on?”

“A paper,” Ian replied. He didn't mean to sound so irritated, but if Mickey just came over for some chit-chat, Ian was going to have to take a raincheck. His patience was starting to wear thin, with this whole thing ( _whatever this was_ ) that Mickey constantly tried to get him wrapped up in.

Mickey nodded, his eyes roaming over Ian before scanning the rest of the library. It was relatively empty and quiet. “So what’s your major?”

“Why do you care?” Ian shot back, before he could stop himself.

Mickey pulled a face, confused and a little put off, “Shit man, sorry… didn’t know it was fucking privileged information.”

Ian sighed, running a hand over his hair, “English.”

A silence settled between the two of them. Ian didn't bother hiding the fact that he was staring at Mickey and Mickey didn't bother hiding the fact that he was doing the exact same thing to Ian. It was almost like a weird, calm, face-off. 

He really wanted to know what Mickey came over here for in the first place. Did the guy need to ask him something, or was this more of _let’s-fuck-with-Gallagher_? Mickey had that look in his eyes that Ian thought he recognized as interest. Ian wasn't exactly that great at being able to tell when a guy was into him, but there was something in Mickey’s eyes that told him more than what the brunette was letting on. Mickey always looked like he wanted to say something, but didn't know how.

“So what’s your major?” Ian asked Mickey in return, choosing to break the silence with something light.

“Business,” Mickey answered. He held up his stained hands, “Minoring in Studio Art though.”

There was a vision of Mickey’s body covered in stains of paint splatters and smears that Ian had to fight down with every ounce of willpower he had. Ian used to draw here and there, but it wasn't anything serious. He’d never had any kind of weird paint fetish, but for some reason that vision was getting him hotter than an obnoxious  middle schooler in the middle of a Sex Education class.

Ian didn't mean to grin at that, but he did, “That’s cool.”

“Drives my dad crazy, so it’s worth it,” Mickey shrugged.

“Daddy issues,” Ian teased, “Sexy.”

Mickey rolled his eyes, that slow smirk taking over his mouth, “Fuck off.”

Just when he thought he was out, Mickey pulled him back in. Ian wanted to know everything. He wanted to know what kind of stuff Mickey painted, or drew, or sculpted… or whatever he did. He wanted to know his favorite color, what he looked like at three in the morning —what he looked like fast asleep.

“You wanna grab a burger or something?”

Mickey’s face fell a little bit. He sighed, “I told you, man—”

“Let me get this straight. You can get sucked off by some random juice-head at a party, but getting something to eat with me is a _little_ _too gay?_ ” Ian shook his head, breathing a humorless laugh; he was done with this shit. 

“You know, it’d be one thing if you weren’t into me. But _you’re_ the one that came over here to talk to me. And _you’re_ the one who keeps eye-fucking me so hard, that I’m worried that you’re gonna start wearing holes in my clothes. So…” he shrugged, not needing to finish, because at that point they both knew.

“Fuck you, man,” Mickey looked down at the table while he chewed on his bottom lip. He shook his head a little bit. Ian didn't know if the movement was aimed at him or if Mickey was shaking his head at himself. 

Ian didn't stick around to figure that out though. He gathered his binders and notebooks, stuffing them into his backpack and left the library.

He called Alex later that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God damnit Mickey.


	4. December

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Convincing Lip to go to the show with him had been much easier than he thought it was going to be. 
> 
> “I’m in. Artist chicks are freaks.” —Lip Gallagher.

Ian didn't want to go back to Shooters, but Lip did. Lip had this thing about trying to grip onto anything and everything that reminded him of South Side so he liked going to the shitty bar because it was kind of like walking into The Alibi Room.

“So what’s the status on the whole Mickey Milkovich thing, you still staying away from that or…?” Lip asked.

Ian rolled his eyes, “Seriously, I don’t even know where to begin. The guy is a walking mind-fuck.”

“Like in a good way, or a bad way?”

“I don’t even know.”

“You still think he’s straight?”

Ian snorted a laugh but didn't reply, just shrugged. His gut said no, Mickey wasn’t straight. But honestly who the fuck even knew… maybe the guy was bi, or curious, or just trying to drive his dad crazy. Whatever was going on with him, Ian was trying to stay away from it.

_Trying_ being the operative word. Succeeding, not so much.

He was becoming like this crazy, obsessive freak. He’d stay up at night and think about Mickey’s mouth or his laugh or his hands. Ian wondered what that FUCK hand would look like wrapped around him. 

Every time he saw a shock of black hair, he thought of Mickey. It was pathetic and Ian was starting to really fucking hate himself for it. The guy was obviously not interested. Or, he was interested but wasn’t going to make a move. Whatever the case, it was way too complicated for Ian to wrap his head around.

“Been hanging out with this guy Alex,” Ian offered with a shrug. At least this thing with Alex was straight-forward. Call, fuck, leave, end of story.

“Hey! I fucked an Alex the other day,” Lip grinned, “Probably a different Alex though.”

“Probably,” Ian laughed.

Ian didn’t see Mickey at Shooters that day. 

 

* * *

 

A few days later, he did see Mickey, but he didn't talk to him.

Ian had been walking through a parking lot, taking a shortcut to work, when he saw Mickey talking to an older man. The man had gray hair and a harsh face, was pointing a finger at Mickey’s chest. Mickey did nothing to stop him, didn't shove his hand away like Ian thought he would.

That’s when Ian realized that the older man was Terry Milkovich.

They were probably fifty or sixty yards away, something like that —maybe farther, Ian was bad at distances. They were too far away for Ian to hear what was being said. Terry was red in the face. Mickey kept his eyes casted down, shifting from one foot to another.

Ian frowned, his pace slowing down, but he didn't stop.

He didn't stop walking until Terry reared back a hand and smacked Mickey across his beautiful face. Mickey stumbled back, held onto his cheek, but he kept his eyes down. He didn't make a move to defend himself or anything. He just took it. Then Terry grabbed onto the back of Mickey’s neck, bringing his son closer. He leaned into Mickey, right next to his ear and said something that made his son flinch.

Ian remembered Mickey’s bruised and scraped up face from a while ago. He knew immediately that Terry had done that to him. And knowing all this, putting it together with what he’d already experienced with Mickey, was like figuring out part of a combination lock.

And Ian didn't realize it at first, but he was clenching his fists at his sides, openly staring at the scene. He didn't realize it until his arms started to ache from the pressure.

Ian thought he should have done something, should have went over there, but Terry was already walking away from Mickey. And Mickey… well, Mickey was left standing there, his back facing Ian, his head hanging a little bit in defeat. Ian saw him bring up his hands to his face, looking like he was probably holding them to his eyes, he wasn’t sure, he couldn't really see. Then Mickey got into the car he was standing next to, and drove away.

 

* * *

 

Curiosity got the better of Ian. A few of the students were being featured in a show at an art gallery; one of the names on the list of contributors was Mickey Milkovich. He only found this out because he’d been wandering around campus, _just so happened to stumble into the visual arts building_ , and saw a flyer. Cocktail attire, whatever that meant. Lip would know.

Ever since the incident in the parking lot, Ian had been having a hard time thinking of much else. Which didn't help because there was a lot of studying he had to get through. But how in the hell was he supposed to study when all he could think of was Terry Milkovich’s contorted, angry snarl as he smacked Mickey? It was impossible.

Ian had never had any _dead-serious_ violent thoughts towards someone before, but the list of things he’d like to do to Terry Milkovich just kept getting longer and longer. He wondered what else the bastard had done to Mickey, how long he’d been hitting him,and what he had said that made Mickey flinch like he did. He wanted Terry to answer for his actions. He wanted Terry to answer to _him_.

Ian never got along with his own father, had even been knocked around by the guy a good amount of times. But the look in Terry’s eyes… even Frank never had that look. It was like pure hate. It wasn’t right.

As horrible as that day had been, it drew Ian in more, even when he wanted to walk away. He just couldn’t. And yeah, he obviously felt bad for the guy because he had a prick of a dad, but it wasn’t even about that. It was about this beautiful guy who just got more and more complicated and Ian had to know _everything_. Since the first moment Ian saw Mickey, he’d been hooked. Completely hooked.

Convincing Lip to go to the show with him had been much easier than he thought it was going to be. 

“I’m in. Artist chicks are freaks.” —Lip Gallagher.

And you could say a lot of things about the oldest Gallagher boys. But what you couldn't say about them was that they didn't clean up nice. Because they did. They cleaned up real fucking nice, and they knew it.

It was really _really_ cold outside, but before they went in, Ian and Lip shared a cigarette, watching people walk in and out of the gallery. A couple girls exchanged flirty smiles with them. Even though it did nothing for him, Ian liked the attention, throwing back his own flirty grins and eyebrow quirks. 

After years of watching Lip pick up girls, Ian had learned a few things. He knew how to pull on a cigarette like James Dean, and how to run his fingers through his hair, because girls liked that shit. Guys liked that shit too, of course. But the difference was that Ian didn't want to fuck girls; the pressure was off. 

“You are like the equivalent to a padded bra,” Lip nudged him.

“Excuse me?” Ian pulled a face.

“You’re fucking flirting with girls, when there’s nothing going on there!” 

Ian laughed, “I’m baiting them for you.”

“Oh fuck off, you’re baiting them for me. You just need your attention fix because a certain someone won’t let you get your dick wet,” Lip barked a laugh, pulling on his cigarette. 

“You are not a nice person,” Ian sighed at his brother.

“I know,” Lip grinned, “Ain’t this a bit dressy for a fucking student art show?”

Ian shrugged, “I wouldn't know, this is my first one.”

“So you uh… you ready to go get some Art student strange?” Lip teased with a shit-eating grin.

Ian snatched the cigarette out of his brothers hand and laughed, “Are you?”

“Fuck man, I’ve been ready.”

The gallery had just enough traffic that it wasn’t overwhelming. Huge paintings lined the walls and odd metal and ceramic sculptures were scattered throughout, every piece having small groups of people admiring them.

Lip and Ian separated as soon as they got into the gallery. Which almost defeated the purpose of Lip coming in the first place, but it was just knowing that he was there that was important to Ian. Just in case Ian needed him for anything.

Honestly, the whole scene took his breath away. Ian walked through the entire gallery, looking at every piece. There were abstract paintings and more traditional portraits and surrealism… just a little bit of everything. And even if Ian didn't understand some of them, he still marveled at them. Couldn't really wrap his mind around creating something like that out of thin air.

He saw Mickey’s pieces before he saw Mickey. There were three large paintings side-by-side. All of them had a very distinct style; all of them very desaturated, using mostly only blacks, grays and whites; they were kind of grungy, kind of (surprisingly) personal. They were rough but beautiful; Ian wouldn't have expected anything less to be created by the hands of Mickey Milkovich.

The first painting was just badass, the only pops of color were browns and dark reds. Ian recognized the two guys immediately from Shooters. They were the guys that Mickey had been playing pool with. Both of them stood next to each other. The guy on the left, with light brown hair, had his fists pushed together and out in front of him; BEAT DOWN scrawled across his knuckles —he was giving some kind of snarl-smile around a cigarette. The one on the right was taller and broader, and had a shotgun up on his shoulder, beer bottle in his free hand.

The second one was of a girl; Ian recognized her from Mickey’s apartment a while ago. She was sitting in a chair, leaning forward and kind of down, elbows resting on her knees —if it were a photograph, it would have been taken from someone sitting on the ground. She held a middle finger up on one hand, the other holding a cigarette. She was giving this _fuck you_ kind of smirk. The only color was touched in her eyes, with flecks of soft blue.

But the third one made Ian’s breath catch in his throat. He probably stared at it the longest, had to stop himself from reaching out to touch it. It had to be a self portrait from the chest up —and that was only evident because Ian recognized Mickey’s hair right off the bat. But his face was smudged out and then painted over with large, reckless white strokes. The painting had no pops of color, the background white and gray. It hit Ian harder than he ever thought a painting would. It was hard to look at, but even harder to look away from. 

As Ian stood in front of the third painting, he felt someone settle up next to him and look at the painting with him. He knew it was Mickey. They stood in silence for a moment, both of them looking at the portrait.

“Didn’t know you were into this shit,” Mickey finally broke the silence.

“It’s a recent development,” Ian said, finally looking at Mickey. He looked good. He always looked good, but cleaned up he was on a whole other fucking level. “These are amazing. You’re really talented.”

“Thanks, man.” Mickey moved past Ian, gesturing to the second painting, “You met her, right? Mandy, my sister.”

Ian’s eyes widened as angels started singing a rousing chorus of hallelujah, “Oh shit. I thought she was your girlfriend or something.”

Mickey frowned, “Why the fuck would you think that?”

Ian scratched the back of his neck, scrambling to figure out what to say, “She said you were territorial. I thought…”

Mickey looked at him with both eyebrows raised, giving him a once-over, as if he were waiting for Ian to work that out in his head. 

Territorial. _Oh_. Ian flushed.

The brunette gave Ian an easy grin, then gestured to the first painting, “And for the record, those are my brothers, Iggy and Colin.”

“And this is you,” Ian finished for him, motioning to the third painting.

Mickey stayed silent but didn't look away from Ian, the grin slipping off his face.

“So do you just paint?” Ian asked, trying to ease the tension that started to curl between them.

Mickey shrugged, rubbing at his bottom lip with his thumb, “I draw, but I’ve always just really liked painting.”

“I’d like to uh…” Ian stopped himself before continuing. He shrugged. “I’m sure your drawings are really good too.”

“You smoke?” Mickey asked him suddenly.

Ian nodded.

“You wanna go smoke? I need a fucking break from this shit. People asking me stupid fucking questions, it’s a nightmare.”

Ian grinned, “Yeah okay.”

Admittedly, it was freezing outside. They both had heavy jackets on, standing close to one another, but not too close because you know, it would have been too gay to stand next to each other for warmth. Mickey didn't say anything like that, Ian was just assuming and being a little shit. 

His thoughts must have translated to his face though because Mickey gave him one of those confused looks, eyebrows furrowed. 

Ian shook his head, “It’s just cold.”

Mickey pulled on his cigarette, his eyes scanning the street in front of them, “So why’d you come tonight?”

“I was curious, I guess.”

“About art? Shit man, there’s a museum just—”

“About you,” Ian cut him off, tired of this whole dance. He sighed, pulled a long drag from his cigarette and let his shoulders fall. 

He wasn’t looking at Mickey, but he felt the shorter man’s eyes on him, felt his gaze drag up and down his body. It should have made him feel weird or violated in some way, but it didn’t. It never did.

“Here’s the thing Red,” Mickey started.

Ian huffed a dry laugh, finally looking over at him, “You’re joking. Tell me you’re joking. Jesus Christ, what the fuck am I even doing? This is just sad at this point.”

Mickey shook his head, raising a hand to stop Ian from walking away. “Maybe let me finish this time, a’ight? I can’t give you… I can’t give you want you’re looking for. It’s just how it is.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Man,” Mickey rolled his eyes and sighed, “You got _boyfriend_ written all over that pretty fucking face.”

Ian frowned, feeling the back of his neck heat up.

“I ain’t saying that’s a bad thing,” Mickey added. “I’m not. I’m just saying that I can’t give you that. And I know that makes me sound like a fucking dick, but it’s just… it’s just how it is.”

He felt a fire catch in his belly, “Fuck you, Mickey. Are you seriously gonna stand there and look me in the fucking eyes and pull the _I don’t do relationships_ card? You don't know shit about me or what I want.”

“Fuck. You know what, it’s not actually all about you, Gallagher,” Mickey sighed, throwing his cigarette to the ground and stepping on it. He took a breath, exhaling all rough and frustrated while he shook his head, “Want me to be straight with you?” 

“That would be fucking _great_. Because so far, I don’t even know which way is up, with you,” Ian curled his lip back in a snarl. Fuck this guy.

“Fine,” Mickey sniffed, “You and me… you know… _fuck_ ,” he wiped his hand over his mouth, “It’s about what I want but can’t have. A’ight? You ain’t just a fuck, Ian, okay. Do you understand what I'm saying?”

Ian felt like he’d lost the ability to breathe or understand how anything in the world worked. The only thing he could process at that very moment was the way Mickey said his name, they way he said _what I want but can’t have_. 

He reached out and curled his fingers in the front of Mickey’s jacket, “Mick…”

But Mickey shook his head and gently took his hand off of the material, their fingers tangling together for the shortest moment possible. Even in the freezing air, Mickey’s skin was hot to the touch, “I have to go back inside and deal with this shit. Thanks for stopping by, I appreciate it.”

 

* * *

 

He felt numb and was maybe in shock or something, it was hard to tell. Mickey’s words just kept repeating in his head over and over again. _It’s about what I want but can’t have_ and _You ain’t just a fuck, Ian._

Mickey had Ian fucked up in ways that he didn't even think were possible. And he kept coming back to Mickey’s self portrait, and how it made him feel. It tore Ian up, thinking about how Mickey perceived himself. Ian didn't know much about art —he knew exactly nothing about art— but he knew enough about people to put two and two together. 

Between the painting, what Mickey had said, and what Ian saw in the parking lot, it was very clear that everything boiled down to Terry Milkovich’s law, whatever that law may be.

 

* * *

 

A hand grabbed at Ian’s arm when he walked out of the men’s locker room at the gym. At first he flinched away, but after seeing it was Mickey’s sister, Ian breathed a sigh of relief.

“Heard you made an appearance at my brother’s show,” she said. “I woulda gone, but he hates when I do.”

Ian nodded, “Yeah. I don’t think he was happy about me showing up.”

Mandy gave a small smile, her eyes searching Ian’s face, “I dunno about that. I’m gonna let you in on a little secret about Mickey, as long as you promise not to narc on me. Because he’ll kill me if he knew I was talking about him to you.”

“Yeah?” Ian grinned.

She nodded, her face becoming a bit somber, “He’s trapped. Our dad kind of has it out for him since… you know… and Mickey’s trapped. That’s all I can really say.”

Ian felt his stomach tense up, remembering the parking lot, remembering Mickey’s beaten face in the library.

“Your dad knows?” Ian asked.

“It's a really fucked up situation,” Mandy said, rolling her eyes. “He’s an idiot and a fucking psycho. It’s not really my business to tell you but… he’s really got Mickey fucked up. A lot of shit’s gone down.”

“Jesus,” Ian sighed, running a hand over his damp hair. "Why are you telling me this?"

Mandy shrugged helplessly, “Because he’s worth it... and he will surprise you. Just be careful, okay?”

He nodded, shoving his hands into his pockets, “Yeah, thanks.”

 

* * *

 

During Christmas break, Lip gave Ian an envelope.

In that envelope was another flyer from the Visual Arts building. But it wasn't about an art show. It was about earning a hundred bucks to be a nude model for one of the studio art classes.

Ian tilted his head at Lip, his face falling, “What the fuck is wrong with you. This is a bad idea. A _very_ bad idea. And like, I dunno, kinda desperate right?”

“Excuse me, you just showed up at the guy’s show out of the fucking blue and made goo-goo eyes at his paintings. You _are_ desperate,” Lip defended, “Just listen… this girl I met at that show —she’s a freak, but we’ll talk about that later— she’s uh… she’s in Mickey’s class. _This_ class. So you can see him _and_ let him know what’s uh… you know, on the table,” he said, pointing to the flyer. “Grand gesture, man.”

“This is the worst idea you’ve ever had.”

“I’ve _definitely_ had worse ideas than this,” Lip laughed.

Ian shook his head, “And you thought I’d be okay with standing butt ass naked in front of a bunch of people while they just stare at me and draw me or whatever?”

Lip blinked at him, “You really want me to answer that?”

Ian laughed, despite himself, “You’re a prick. Why are you so invested in me getting with Mickey? I told you, he made it pretty clear that it’s not gonna happen.”

“I actually uh… I think it’s a bad idea, if you want me to be honest with you. But I also can’t stand this pining shit anymore. So I’m kinda hoping that if you throw it in him _once_ , all this bullshit will go away,” his older brother shrugged. “Who knows, maybe for both of you. Just bang it out, you know?”

Ian doubted that.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ **Mickey's self portrait insp.** ](http://society6.com/product/faceless-number-02_print#1=45)
> 
>  
> 
> Okay so I know I wrote this and everything, but my heart kinda hurts a little.
> 
> And I know this is a bit of a different take on Terry, but I feel like at the same time, it's very much still Terry...? idk. He's more of 3x06 Terry, than 4x11 Terry, if that makes sense -this is NOT any kind of foreshadowing or whatever for the future of this fic. 
> 
> I just feel as though this version of him weighs more on the mindset side of the 'corrective/ignorant/abusive' "she's gonna fuck the -- outta you" than the "I'm gonna straight up murder you for being gay".
> 
> For someone who writes, I'm really shitty at explaining myself lol
> 
> Thank you for all the feedback! :)


	5. January

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A brown bag plopped in the middle of him and his book, grease stains dotting the paper. The smell of beef grilled to perfection wafted up into his nose and Ian groaned heavily as his mouth watered.
> 
> He looked up as Mickey was sitting down in the chair across from him, popping a french fry into his mouth. He had his own brown bag.
> 
> “Did you bring me lunch?” Ian arched a brow at him; he could have laughed, but held it in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so clearly the monday-wednesday-friday schedule is just not going to happen. I guess this'll get updated whenever -at least every 2-3 days? idk.

Unfortunately or fortunately, it was hard to tell which way this was leaning, Ian got the modeling gig. He’d never modeled a day in his life, much less completely butt ass naked, and was kind of dreading that Mickey would take one look at him and either: One, laugh. Or two, start throwing punches for being such a shit-stirer, especially after the gallery.

The instructor, Joy, was this older woman, probably in her sixties —the old hippie type, if the old hippie type went to Yale University School of Art, _Jesus_. Ian wasn’t even in the art program and that intimidated him.

They had a brief conversation over the phone, before Ian came to see her. Joy was very professional when he stripped down (his entire body flushing with embarrassment, because what the fuck) and showed her what he had to offer the class. It was very clinical and straight forward, thank god.

“ _Wonderful_ form and face, you’ll do just nicely for my class,” she had said.

When the day came, as soon as Ian walked into the classroom, a strong hand clamped down on his shoulder and yanked him right back out, into the hallway. Mickey’s whole face was hard and Ian immediately knew that pulling this was probably not okay. Not probably… definitely.

“The fuck are you doing here?” his voice had a hard edge to it.

“Making a hundred bucks,” Ian shrugged, slipping his beanie off his head, trying to diffuse the tension.

Mickey shook his head, his eyes glancing up at Ian’s messy head of hair, “Bad move, Red. I thought I made it fucking clear—”

“Not everything is about you,” Ian cut him off, even though _this_ right here was indeed, all about Mickey. “I need the money and this is a quick hundred bucks.”

“You’re a persistent motherfucker, aren’t you,” Mickey sighed, a barely-there smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.

Ian fell down the rabbit hole. He had made a very quick decision that he had to have him. Okay, so he’d made that decision a long time ago and the decision wasn’t taken lightly. But right in that moment, it was cemented. Ian didn't care about any of the bullshit baggage that came with Mickey —he’d take Mickey _and_ the baggage. Ian believed Mandy when she said that Mickey was worth it. 

He just needed this man in his life, in his bed, around him, all the time. He had to have him, if Mickey would let him. He knew it was selfish and probably a set up for disaster, but Ian didn’t care.

The shorter man’s face softened a little. He rolled his eyes, mumbled how Ian was an idiot, and went to his usual eye-fuck motion, dragging his gaze down Ian’s body, “So you finally showing me the goods, is that what this is? Showing me what I’m missing out on?”

Ian smirked, leaning down next to Mickey’s ear, “You’ve got no idea what you’re missing out on,” he kept his voice low, his breath hot on Mickey’s skin. There was a possibility that it would come off as a little weird, but it was a chance he was willing to take. Ian inhaled soft and slow, “Mm, you smell good Mick.” 

(And holy shit, he really did. It took a lot to not just plant his face in Mickey’s neck and live there.)

Now that Mickey had given him a somewhat clear indication of what he _did_ want, outside of the gallery, Ian felt more confident in going about the Mickey-Milkovich-Wooing. By the sighing sound in the back of Mickey’s throat, he could tell that it worked; he was sinking that hook into the brunette a little further. Mickey Milkovich wasn’t as untouchable as he thought he was, or thought he had to be. Now it was just a matter of getting Mickey to let go of all that bullshit that was holding him back.

“See you in there,” Ian added before he continued into the classroom.

There was a circle of easels, holding large canvases, all situated around a wooden platform draped in a sheet. 

Ian took a deep breath, told himself _fuck it_ , and on Joy’s instruction, stripped down. _Butt ass naked_ , in front of a room full of people. Mickey included. Ian caught Mickey’s eyes and smirked. Mickey shook his head and wet his lips before settling down at an easel.

Joy helped position him since he had no idea what he was doing. She had him kind of crouched down, folded in on himself. One leg curled under him, the other bent at the knee, his foot flat on the platform. She placed his arms to wrap around his leg in a way that showed the lines of his form or whatever, Ian wasn’t really paying much attention, just let himself be moved around. 

At least he wasn't just awkwardly standing there, not knowing what to do with his arms or hands. Trying not to think about all these people seeing every inch of him was harder than he thought it would be. Lip would have been pissing himself laughing right about now.

And then he just stayed there, keeping his eyes on the sheet under him, he listened to the soft scraping sounds of pencils mixing with the kind of dull, wet-ish sounds of paint dragging across canvas and soft murmuring voices. 

Ian knew that Mickey was right in front of him, but he didn't dare look up. Partly because he didn't want to move and mess up the pose, and partly because the last thing he needed right now was to look at Mickey and start thinking about things that made his body react.

After a while, when his muscles started to ache a little bit, Ian kind of felt… a little weird sense of liberation or pride, he wasn't sure, but it was kind of thrilling. It was odd. All these people were looking at him and drawing or painting their own versions of him, in whatever media they saw fit. It was kind of cool.

Lip always said he was a little attention whore, so maybe this was feeding into it. Because he found himself thinking that he could be okay with doing this again.

 

* * *

 

Later that night, there was a knock on Ian’s door. Assuming it was Lip, Ian didn't bother shrugging on a shirt or even sweatpants. He was fresh from a shower, exhausted, and his body was still kinda shaky from sitting in such a weird position for a straight hour and a half. 

So when he opened his door in just his boxers, he bit the inside of his cheek, because _of course_ it wasn’t Lip, it was Mickey.

“Shit, Mickey,” Ian froze up, his arms folding under his chest. He was unsure of what to say beyond that, or why Mickey was even at his place. How did he know where he lived? It didn't even matter, Ian wasn’t going to ask, he didn't care.

“You left this,” Mickey said, holding out Ian’s black beanie.

“Thanks,” Ian said, taking the hat from the shorter man. 

Their fingers brushed each other in that annoyingly _oh god my skin is burning now_ way that made Ian want to roll his eyes. Because Mickey’s touch was warm and it did kind of burn, in the best way possible. Ian wondered if Mickey was warm like that everywhere. He’d noticed his skin was warm in front of the gallery, but had been a little too distracted to really appreciate it.

They stood in the doorway, but Mickey didn't drag his eyes over Ian’s body this time, just kept them on his face. Ian wasn’t sure if he should invite him in or what to do. He wanted to invite him inside, strip him down and get to business, but he had a feeling that it wasn’t going to happen.

“You did good today,” Mickey offered with a little shrug.

“Thanks. Do I get to see what you did?”

Mickey lifted a brow and wet his lips, “Maybe.”

“You wanna come in for a beer?”

“Probably not a good idea,” Mickey dropped his gaze down to Ian’s chest for a moment, “You know… got some bullshit I gotta take care of for my business class.”

Ian nodded, this time letting his eyes wander over Mickey’s face and down his body. The things he could do to Mickey Milkovich. He chanced it, unfolding his arms and taking a step closer to the shorter man, making them only inches apart. Mickey didn't move, didn't even flinch, just fixed his eyes on Ian’s.

“Should probably get going,” Mickey said, with not much effort behind it.

“Probably,” Ian breathed. He wasn't touching Mickey, but he could still feel the heat radiating from his body and smell that cigarettes and paint smell.

Then Mickey smirked, dropping his eyes straight down, “I’ll go, so you take care of that.”

Ian sighed, his face heating up. Shit. That’s embarrassing.

“You know what,” Mickey leaned forward a little, his nose just barely ghosting against the crook of Ian’s neck. He inhaled soft and slow like Ian had earlier outside of the art classroom. His breath was hot and wet against his skin as he breathed out, making Ian shudder. “Mm.”

After Mickey left, Ian barely made it to the bathroom before he pushed his boxers down to the middle of his thighs, spit in his hand, and wrapped his fingers around himself. He had Mickey wetting his lips on replay. Over and over again, his tongue darting out, smoothing between his lips and pulling back inside his mouth. _Fuck,_ Mickey’s whole mouth —lips, tongue, teeth, everything was perfect.

He didn't last long, he was so keyed up, coming with a drawn out groan.

Mickey Milkovich had the upper hand and Ian needed to rectify that.

 

* * *

 

Ian finished off his beer, listening to Lip rattle on about some dumb prick with a superiority complex in one of his classes (Ian almost asked if Lip was talking about himself). It was hard to concentrate though, when on the other side of the bar, Mickey was playing pool with his brothers, laughing and talking shit on each other.

The two of them would catch each other looking every once in a while. Mickey would lift a corner of his mouth up. Ian would do the same.

“So, did that naked art class thing work?” Lip knocked his shoulder against Ian’s.

Ian shook his head, “I’m working on it.”

“Damn, he’s really making you sing for your supper, huh?”

“You have no idea,” Ian laughed. “Dude’s complicated.”

“You think it’s worth it?”

“Absolutely,” Ian grinned, watching Mickey head towards the bathroom. There. What he’d been waiting for. “Gotta piss, I’ll be right back.”

_Operation: Get The Upper Hand_ was underway.

“I actually gotta go man, I’ll call you later, okay?”

Ian nodded, “Sounds good.”

Mickey was standing at the sink when Ian walked into the bathroom. The shorter man shut off the faucet and reached for a handful of paper towels, keeping Ian’s eyesight through the mirror. Neither one of them said anything.

The air was immediately curled thick with tension. Ian locked the bathroom door and took the few steps to stand next to Mickey, leaning his hip on the counter. They just stared at each other for a moment, Ian this time letting his eyes travel all over Mickey, lingering on the planes of his face, the slopes of his shoulders. He really wanted to see what Mickey had under those clothes. The thought made his mouth water.

Then he looked at Mickey’s hands —he really loved them, thought about them too much. Ian reached out, taking Mickey’s hand in his, lightly tracing his thumb across the FUCK inked into the skin of his knuckles. Mickey sighed in the back of his throat, so softly that Ian almost missed it.

Ian leaned forward, his mouth hovering just inches away from Mickey, silently asking if it was okay. He didn't want to freak him out, didn't know exactly what he’d do if the shorter man lashed out or shut him down or walked away. 

Mandy’s words _He’s trapped_ echoed in the back of Ian’s mind.

Mickey didn't lash out, he just turned his head away from Ian and sighed. Ian watched Mickey’s face up close, how his eyebrows were creased, how the muscle in his jaw worked under his skin, his eyes closed. Mickey didn't move away from him though, didn't push Ian away, didn't yank his hand out of Ian’s. Instead, Mickey’s fingers curled just barely around Ian’s. Just enough to get his attention.

“I don’t…” Mickey whispered, his voice trailing off. He exhaled, frustrated or disappointed —a bit of both.

“It’s alright,” Ian whispered back. 

He knew better than to think that Mickey was inexperienced. He'd seen the guy moments after getting a blowjob, first of all -and the thought of Mickey never having sex just didn't even compute. So it had to be this intimacy that Mickey was unfamiliar with. Closeness, kissing, touching like this. Yeah, that made more sense. Ian knew guys like Mickey before -don't kiss, don't touch, just fuck and move on. Yeah, Mickey was like that. That made sense to Ian, especially since the brunette had a psycho dad... probably couldn't risk intimacy. _He's trapped._

So Ian dipped his head down and brushed his lips against Mickey’s neck instead, hoping that that would be okay, inhaling that scent he was slowly becoming addicted to. Mickey’s skin was warm and soft against Ian’s mouth. He pressed his lips against Mickey’s neck a little more, relieved when the brunette leaned into it, his hand tightening around Ian’s. This was okay. This was good.

Ian kissed Mickey’s neck again before moving his lips to just behind his ear, kissing there too. Mickey’s grip tightened, a breathy sound spilling from his lips. So Ian kissed him there again, letting his hot breath spread over the spot, earning more little sounds and sighs from Mickey.

His body ached to press Mickey against the bathroom wall. He ached to touch Mickey everywhere and be touched by Mickey everywhere. But Ian held himself back, knowing that it would only end in disaster at this point.

“I’ll let you get back to your brothers,” Ian whispered against Mickey’s skin. He untangled his fingers from Mickey’s and took a step away from him, giving the shorter man a little grin. “See you around, Mick.”

 

* * *

 

He’d been staring at the same page for about twenty minutes. Ian couldn't concentrate, had absolutely no interest in Renascence Lit, but he had to take it because fuck schedules and class sizes and everything to do with that. The library was so quiet that it was unnerving, and he was pretty sure that his back was about to just collapse in on itself from tension.

A brown bag plopped in the middle of him and his book, grease stains dotting the paper. The smell of beef grilled to perfection wafted up into his nose and Ian groaned heavily as his mouth watered.

He looked up as Mickey was sitting down in the chair across from him, popping a french fry into his mouth. He had his own brown bag.

“Did you bring me lunch?” Ian arched a brow at him; he could have laughed, but held it in.

“Fuck you, is what I brought you,” Mickey rolled his eyes. “Mandy was supposed to meet me, but she didn't show up. Hope you like pickles.”

“How’d you know I was here?” Ian asked, opening the bag. He grabbed a handful of fries and shoved them into his mouth, fighting down the moan that threatened to surface. Fuck yes.

“Been here for a while,” Mickey replied, watching Ian carefully.

Ian grinned at him before taking a bite out of the cheeseburger. Mickey was cute. This was cute. They were definitely not allowed to eat in the library, but still, all of this was very cute.

“Thanks,” Ian said softly, watching Mickey pull his burger out of his bag. Was this like… a kind-of date? Like a weird library date? Ian didn't want to get ahead of himself or get his hopes up for nothing, so he didn't ask. He'd take whatever Mickey was willing to give him, at this point.

“What’re you studying?” Mickey asked. He rubbed at the side of his neck, behind his ear. Right where Ian’s lips had been only days ago. God, he wanted to do that again, but more. He wanted to taste his skin there and drag his teeth across that spot and—

“Ay,” Mickey waved a hand in front of Ian’s face, “You okay, man? You gonna have a fucking stroke or something?”

Ian jumped a little as Mickey pulled him out of his stupor. Could he just _not_ embarrass himself in front of this guy? He’d had a french fry lifted halfway up to his open mouth, just frozen in place staring at Mickey. Wasn’t he supposed to have the upper hand here?

What was he studying. “Renascence Lit,” Ian mumbled quickly, popping the french fry into his mouth.

Mickey smiled at him slow, “I’m almost done with your drawing.”

Ian’s face heated up, “I thought you were finished with that?”

“Nah,” was Mickey’s only reply; he shrugged.

“Do you… need me to model for you, so you can finish?” Ian asked, trying not to sound too hopeful for the chance to strip down in front of Mickey again.

But Mickey shook his head, “I got that uh,” he tapped a finger against this temple, “That photographic memory shit. Look at something a couple times and I can, you know… remember every detail.”

The brunette was looking at him with these teasing, slightly challenging eyes; his tongue darted out to wet his lips, looking at Ian like he was a fucking hot fudge sundae waiting to be completely devoured. Ian’s stomach flipped more times than he could count. Jesus _fucking_ Christ, at this rate he was going to have to talk his dick down from the ledge.

Mickey had been flat-out eye-fucking him since day _one_. Then he stared at him for over an hour while he was completely naked. This guy knew every inch of his body by now. Ian hoped that he wouldn't start sweating; his whole body felt like it was on fire.

“Really?” Ian swallowed hard.

Mickey nodded, “Yup.”

“That’s uh…” Ian couldn't finish his thought, ending in a little strangled huff of a laugh.

“It’s nice,” Mickey said, his voice low.

“Yeah?”

The brunette nodded, “It’s real nice.”

“So then, you like having that… photographic memory?” Ian asked dumbly. His mouth ran dry, thinking of Mickey possibly, _maybe_ thinking of him when he _wasn't_ painting. He clenched and unclenched his fists, keeping them rested on top of the table. 

Mickey nodded, his face completely passive. He leaned forward a little, resting his elbows on the table, “Comes in handy.”

Fuck everything. Ian couldn't stop staring at Mickey’s mouth. He wondered if a photographic memory could be a learned skill. Maybe if he stared long enough at Mickey, he’d be able to just close his eyes and see him perfectly, not just have the idea of him. But like full-on mental images of the brunette. He’d probably never be able to get his hands out of his pants.

“I bet,” Ian said. He might as well have been in a trance.

Mickey’s gaze dropped down to Ian’s hands; he smirked all slow and easy. “I should probably get going. I’ve got a class in fifteen minutes.”

Ian could only nod in reply.

Mickey got up from his chair and stepped around the table to where Ian sat, kind of blocking Ian off from the rest of the library’s view. Ian couldn't stop looking at the brunette, his eyes widening when Mickey’s hand reached out and his thumb pressed against the corner of his mouth.

“Got a little ketchup,” Mickey said, dragging his thumb across Ian’s lip.

Ian tried to make a little _oh_ sound in response, but he thought that if he were to make any sudden movements, then Mickey would take his hand away. His whole face tingled and Ian kind of hated that he was acting like such an awkward little virgin. But the fact was, when Mickey’s thumb slipped between Ian’s lips and teeth, he thought he was going to actually fucking die.

He one-hundred-percent no longer had the upper hand. Ian knew this because while he couldn't take his eyes off of Mickey’s bright blue ones, his lips closed around that thumb and his mouth, taking on a life of it’s own at this point because his brain certainly wasn't working, sucked gently at the digit.

Then Mickey slowly slipped his thumb out of Ian’s mouth, his eyes looking a little unfocused. He exhaled roughly, smirked and ruffled Ian’s hair, “See you around, Red.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [**Ian's pose**](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/149533650103591311/) (because I had a hard time describing that)
> 
> I know the ketchup thing was cheesy as hell, but... _you guys_. 
> 
> I've said it before but I'll say it again... I really don't know how this whole college course thing works etc. I shoulda went. OH WELL.


	6. Feburary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He was washing his hands when he heard the door to the bathroom lock; they were at Shooters, obviously. Where else would they be. Ian looked up into the mirror, seeing Mickey leaning against the locked door behind him, arms folded under his chest, face unreadable. He dried off his hands and turned to face Mickey, leaning back against the counter, waiting for the shorter man to speak first.

[Lip: 3:32 PM] Dude. Holy shit.  
[Lip: 3:32 PM] My buddy Brandon just told me that the whole team saw Coach Milkovich beat the shit out of Mickey.

[Ian: 3:33 PM] WHAT? Is he okay?

[Lip: 3:33 PM] Yeah. Brandon said he knocked him around good, but Mickey’s okay.   
[Lip: 3:34 PM] He said that the head coach and a quarterback had to pull him off of Mickey.  
[Lip: 3:34 PM] Probably gonna get in some serious shit for this idk  
[Lip: 3:34 PM] Mickey gave it back good though. Probably broke his dad’s nose.

[Ian 3:35 PM] Good.  
[Ian 3:35 PM] Should I go see him?

[Lip 3:37 PM] Coach Milkovich?

[Ian 3:38 PM] No fuckwad, Mickey.

[Lip 3:40 PM] idk man.   
[Lip 3:40 PM] Would you want someone bothering you if Frank beat the shit out of you?

[Ian 3:42 PM] I’d want someone to make sure I was okay.

[Lip 3:43 PM] Then go see him.

 

* * *

 

He probably should have waited a day or two. This was probably a bad idea. No, it was _definitely_ a bad idea. But here he was anyways, in front of Mickey’s apartment door. Part of Ian kind of hoped that he wasn't home, that he’d knock and no one would answer.

But someone did answer. Except it was Mandy, with this exhausted, shaken look on her face. Her hair was piled up like it normally was, but she didn't smile when she saw him, didn't call him gorgeous either, she just sighed.

“Bad idea, right?” Ian asked.

Mandy chewed on her bottom lip, looking like she was trying to figure out if it was a bad idea or not, “I dunno. I gave him a Percocet, so he’s a little, you know…”

“I can go, if you think I should,” Ian said, “I just… is he okay? My brother told me what happened. He’s buddies with one of the players.”

She sighed again, heavy and drawn out, “He’s okay. He’s had worse.”

Ian wanted to ask her why, wanted to ask about what happened, what could have set Terry off that bad to make him beat the shit out of Mickey in his office, with all the football players just outside. 

“I’ll go. Don’t tell him it was me at the door,” Ian said, “Just—”

A hand curled over Mandy’s shoulder, gently pulling her back into the apartment. Mickey was there, broken face hard, knuckles all banged up. There were dots of dried blood on his shirt and he leaned to the left a little.

“Mickey, he was just seeing if you were okay,” Ian heard Mandy’s voice from inside the apartment.

Mickey didn’t say anything though; Ian swallowed hard, knowing that he overstepped. With a curl of his lip, the brunette shut the door, leaving Ian out in the hallway. 

One step forward, two steps back.

 

* * *

 

[Ian 4:55 PM] Yeah that was a bad idea.

[Lip 5:00 PM] Tried to warn you.

 

* * *

 

Three days later, Ian found himself standing in front of Mickey’s apartment door again. But this time he wasn’t visiting, he was working.

The bruise under Mickey’s eye was turning yellow around the edges, the scrapes and scratches were scabbing over. He was still leaning a little to the left, but not as much. And his beautiful, broken face was passive as ever. Not hard anymore, not angry, just kind of still. There were smudges of black paint on his hands; Ian wondered what he was working on.

They exchanged money for pizza. Ian heard the television going in the background, but nothing else. Ian opened his mouth to say sorry, but nothing came out. So instead they just looked at each other, Mickey’s eyes focused on Ian’s.

Then Mickey sighed, soft and surrendering, took a step back and closed the door with a soft click.

Ian hated Terry Milkovich now more than ever.

 

* * *

 

Ian ran into Mandy at the gym again. They jogged next to each other on treadmills and talked about school. Mandy was a business major, like her brother. She wanted to go out on her own one day, have a little business all to herself, but she didn't know what kind of business she wanted to go into yet.

Then they scammed on hot guys working out for a bit, which was funny because Mandy would make ridiculous faces with her tongue wagging at Ian and he’d make them back at her. Ian was kind of in friend-love with her at this point. Even if nothing happened with Mickey, he wanted to keep hanging out with her.

After they finished working out, they got lunch. Ian was starving, normally always was after running. They just grabbed food at this little place next to the school’s gym. Ian got a sandwich, Mandy got a salad with a shit-ton of berries and nuts on top. Ian thought it barely counted as a salad anymore, just squirrel food.

Ian told Mandy about his family, about growing up in South Side. It was easy to talk to her. Then she told him about this guy she was seeing, but not really seeing officially, they were mostly just friends with benefits.

Then Ian found out something really interesting about Mandy. She’d been a vegetarian for two years.

“So… you don’t eat meat?” Ian asked slowly.

Mandy shook her head, mouth full of raspberries, “Nope.”

“So you would definitely _not_ meet Mickey for lunch and have a _burger_.”

“Right,” Mandy narrowed her eyes at him, “What’s going on?”

Ian smiled and shook his head. What was going on was that Mickey had brought him lunch to the library —had went out and bought Ian a burger so they could eat together, “Your brother think’s he’s a sly motherfucker, that’s what’s going on.”

Mandy rolled her eyes, “Mickey is a lot of things. Sly is not one of them.”

Ian laughed, but it trailed off, thinking of Mandy’s brother again, “How’s he doing?”

She sighed heavily, pushing her food around her plate, “He’s… it’s hard to tell. I’m sorry about last week. It was kind of intense.”

“I shouldn't have dropped by like that,” Ian said.

“It’s good that you did, I think.”

“Yeah?”

Mandy nodded, “Yeah. He’s never really had anyone besides me and our brothers in his corner, so… you know. It’s good that he knows you are.”

Ian sighed, picking apart his sandwich. He wasn’t as hungry anymore. “You don’t have to answer this, but I’ve been wondering… why did your dad do it?” 

Mandy sat in silence for a minute, tilting her head from side to side, looking like she was mulling it over in her head, “One of Mickey’s teachers talked to our dad about his self portrait. They were worried about him.”

Ian pulled a face. So Terry Milkovich’s answer to his son probably, _most likely_ , having self-worth issues was to beat the shit out of him? In what fucking world did that make any fucking sense.

“You don’t tell Terry Milkovich that he’s fucking up,” Mandy recited, voice full of bitter words, “He is a _devoted_ and _loving_ father, if not strict. He has _normal_ children. His sons are _men_ who fuck women with reckless abandon. None of them could _possibly_ be gay, or have anything wrong with them, especially not some chick-problem like self-esteem issues. His daughter is an untouched princess. And anything that could possibly contradict that is considered a personal attack on Terry Milkovich.”

“Are you fucking serious?” Ian frowned.

“Welcome to the wonderful world of Milkovich,” Mandy sighed. “This _can’t_ go beyond me and you. Especially don’t tell Mickey I’m talking to you about this stuff. I just… sometimes you need to talk about shit, you know?”

“You can trust me,” Ian nodded, with a little reassuring smile. “I’m a gay kid from South Side, we know how to keep secrets.”

That made Mandy smile, “Thank you. So are you like… out out?”

Ian shrugged, “I... guess? I mean, I’m not shouting it from the fucking rooftops or whatever, but my family is cool with it, so it makes it easier to, you know, be who I am.”

“That’s awesome,” Mandy grinned. 

“Yeah, I got lucky,” Ian nodded. “Real lucky.”

 

* * *

 

He was washing his hands when he heard the door to the bathroom lock; they were at Shooters, obviously. Where else would they be. Ian looked up into the mirror, seeing Mickey leaning against the locked door behind him, arms folded under his chest, face unreadable. He dried off his hands and turned to face Mickey, leaning back against the counter, waiting for the shorter man to speak first.

“I don’t talk about my dad,” Mickey finally said. “Don’t ever fucking ask me about any of that shit. If any conversation comes up about it, it’s on _my_ terms. If you can’t deal with that, you can go fuck off.”

“I never asked you about it,” Ian said, lifting his shoulders.

“You don’t know shit about any of this,” Mickey said. 

Ian nodded, letting Mickey take control of this particular subject, since he obviously needed to. Ian knew when to pick his battles, and when to surrender. Because the thing was, even though Mandy had painted a pretty clear picture about the dynamics between Terry and Mickey, Ian assumed there was a lot that he still didn't know. So he was okay with Mickey picking when (or if) he would be comfortable to finally talk about that shit. 

“I shouldn’t have just showed up like that. I just wanted to see if you were okay.”

Mickey sighed, “I know. I… thanks for that, I guess. I don’t need your fucking pity though.”

“No pity,” Ian said. “Just making sure you were still whole.”

“Well, I am. I’m fine.”

Seeing that Mickey was done with this part of the conversation, Ian pushed his weight off of the counter, taking only one step towards Mickey, still giving them a decent amount of space between them, “Your sister is a vegetarian. She doesn’t eat meat —so she doesn't eat cheeseburgers with extra pickles.”

The brunette stayed silent, but he rolled his eyes.

“I believe that means you bought me lunch,” Ian grinned. 

“Yeah well, I believe that means you can go fuck yourself,” Mickey replied, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips.

Ian shrugged, going for it, “I’d rather fuck you.”

Mickey huffed a laugh, his tongue darting to the corner of his mouth, between his teeth. He slowly walked towards Ian, closing the space between them, his eyes dragging all over Ian’s face and shoulders. He missed that, missed the way Mickey studied him like that.

Mickey rested his hands on Ian’s hips and pushed him back until Ian was pressed agains the counter. Ian swallowed hard, trying to permanently imprint the feel of Mickey’s body fully pressed against his own. The bruises on Mickey’s face were gone, leaving behind that beautiful skin that begged to be touched and kissed. Just a faint line of a scar was left above his eyebrow and along his jaw. Ian wanted to kiss those scars away.

“You wanna just bang it out right here, then?” Mickey asked, his voice low.

It took everything in him not to say _yes, please god yes_. Ian took a deep breath and shook his head, “Nah, not like this.”

Mickey arched a brow at him, “This not good enough for you, your highness?”

Ian smiled, resting his hands on Mickey’s forearms, curling his fingers around just below his elbows. Mickey was wearing a jacket, so he couldn't feel the warmth of his skin under his hands like he wanted to. But even still, Ian rubbed small circles with his thumbs, feeling a swell in his chest when Mickey leaned into him more.

Then he slid his hand from Mickey’s arm, to the side of his neck, touching and gently rubbing the pads of his fingers into the skin there. Mickey leaned into the touch, sighing in the back of his throat. 

So Ian, feeling a little brave now, bent his head down and pressed his lips against the other side of Mickey’s neck, letting his tongue slip out to taste and earning the sound of hitching breath from the brunette. Mickey tasted… right. There was no other way to describe it other than right. Good. Mouth-watering good.

He trailed his lips up Mickey’s neck, kissing behind his ear and then moving to his jaw. Mickey’s fingers slid under his shirt and brushed against Ian’s abdomen, like white hot fire licking against his skin. Ian wanted those hands everywhere. His lips brushed the corner of Mickey’s mouth, but he stopped himself from kissing his lips.

“When I fuck you,” Ian said against Mickey’s skin before straightening back up to look at him in the eyes, “It’s gonna be somewhere we don’t have to worry about shit like being too loud, or getting caught with our pants around our ankles.”

Mickey was hard against Ian’s body. His blue eyes blown out. He wet his lips as if he wanted to say something, but couldn't quite get it out.

But then there was a loud knock on the bathroom door, followed by someone’s muffled hollering. He sighed, watching Mickey back away from him and slip into one of the stalls, leaving him to deal with the tipsy man on the other side of the door.

“Sorry man,” Ian murmured, scooting past the guy, “Didn’t realize I locked it.”

 

* * *

 

[Ian 11:20 AM] Fi’s been trying to call you.

[Lip 11:23 AM] Why?

[Ian 11:24 AM] idk.  
[Ian 11:24 AM] You two fighting?

[Lip 11:23 AM] No, I’ve just been busy.

[Ian 11:26 AM] Okay. Make sure you call her when you can.  
[Ian 11:26 AM] She’ll just keep calling til you do.

[Lip 11:29 AM] I will.   
[Lip 11:30 AM] You busy this weekend?

[Ian 11:31 AM] Probably hanging out with Mickey’s sister.

[Lip 11:32 AM] Switching Milkovich’s?

[Ian 11:34 AM] Ha. Ha. Ha. You are hilarious.

[Lip 11: 35 AM] One of my many talents.

 

* * *

 

Later that night, Ian came back home from spending a couple hours at the library to find what looked like a rolled-up tube of paper leaning against his front door.

He brought it inside and unrolled it, exhaling roughly when he saw the drawing. It was from Mickey’s class that Ian modeled for, the lines of his body kinda rough, but distinct and detailed, still in that grungy style of Mickey’s. It was amazing; the only color was the red of Ian’s hair, all messy and red like fire.

He had to stop himself from running his fingers over the drawing, not wanting to mess it up. It was such a weird thought, but Ian couldn't help but think that the way Mickey drew him was… well, the way he drew him was kind of beautiful.

Ian took the drawing inside his apartment and pinned it to his wall. He lit up a cigarette and stood in front of the drawing, trying to imagine Mickey’s hands holding a pencil, trying to imagine Mickey’s concentrated face.

Taking out his phone, Ian grinned while he texted Mandy.

[Ian 7:23 PM] Tell your brother I said thanks.  
[Ian 7:23 PM] And that it’s amazing.

[Mandy 7:24 PM] I will. But I’m gonna give him your number, so I don’t have to play messenger lol

 

* * *

 

Alex called Ian. Ian ignored it.

 

* * *

 

Walking through campus and seeing couples made Ian want to vomit all over the place. Not that he hated seeing couples hold hands or hug or kiss, because he didn’t. Call Ian a romantic, or a sap or whatever, but he wanted to vomit all over the place because he wanted to hold hands and hug and kiss with Mickey. All the time. It was getting a little pathetic, all this pining and wanting. But he couldn't help it. He really liked Mickey. Like a lot.

And then as if some force in the universe was finally on Ian’s side, his phone dinged, signaling an incoming text.

[Mickey 1:30 PM] Visual arts building. Room 205.

Ian didn't need to be told twice.

It took everything he had in him to not sprint there. He only had a morning class, and didn't have to get to work until a couple hours, so he was all freed up for now. He made himself slow down and take a deep breath when he reached the doors to the large brick building. Just a few students filtered in and out of the doors, carrying sketch-books or canvases. 

Room 205 was easy to find, it was the same room from when he modeled for Mickey’s class. This time the room was empty, sun shining in from the large windows, flooding over most of the room.

Mickey was in the far corner; he wore a simple gray tank top and jeans, dotted and smeared with paint. He had reds and greens and blues smudged on his hands and even up his arms. Ian wondered how that happened, but honestly wasn't that worried about it because holy shit, there was something about that boy covered in paint.

“Hey,” Ian said, making his way over to where Mickey was.

“Ay,” Mickey sighed, throwing an arm toward the canvas he stood in front of, “This look fucking happy to you?”

He _tried_ to hold in the snort of laughter, he really did.

Mickey frowned at him, “Nice, douchebag.”

“I just…” Ian sighed, shrugging his shoulders, “Why are you painting flowers?”

“Because,” was Mickey’s only answer. 

Ian heaved a heavy sigh and shoved his hands in his pockets. He wondered if it had anything to do with his teacher talking to Terry about his self portrait. Mickey was watching him look at the painting. Ian could feel the shorter man’s eyes on him, could only guess that his expression was set in that high-eyebrow, expectant look of his, waiting for Ian to say something.

“I don’t really know anything about art,” Ian said.

The brunette sighed, taking hold of Ian’s wrist. He pulled him over to a painting that was resting on an easel and made Ian sit in the stool in front of it. The painting was a chaotic swirl of blacks, blues, greens and grays, with bits of gold. It was kind of a lot to take in. Something about it reminded Ian of water.

“This chick in my class did this,” Mickey said, standing behind Ian. 

“It’s cool,” Ian said, because it was.

“So tell me what it says.”

Ian frowned, “It… it doesn't say anything,” his voice came out as more of a question. “It’s colors and texture and movement. It’s kind of… I dunno, overwhelming?”

Looking at portraits was different. People had faces —those faces had expressions, which were mostly easy to read. But abstract shit like this? It was nice to look at but Ian didn't understand if it was supposed make him feel anything other than a complete lack of focus.

Mickey stepped around Ian and stood next to the painting, keeping his eyes on him, “It should make you feel something, when you look at pieces like this. Look at it again. No bullshit this time, just soak it in; tell me what you feel.”

“Since when are you good with talking about how you feel?” Ian arched a brow at him.

Mickey raised a middle finger, “This is different, asshole.”

Fine. Ian did what he was asked, locking his eyes back on the painting. The globs of paint were laid on thick, creating craters and mountains of the medium; they caught the sunlight and casted their own shadows. The longer he looked at it, the more apparent it became that the painting was of a wave. A single wave.

“I feel like it’s gonna swallow me whole,” Ian just opened his mouth and let the words come out, his eyes shifting to look at Mickey. “Like I’m gonna drown in it. It’s overwhelming, but I kinda feel like I wouldn't mind if I did drown in it. Like, it would be okay.”

Mickey didn't say anything for a minute, until he nodded his head towards his painting, “So does that pass off as happy to you?”

Ian looked at the smudged red and blue flowers, the too bright sky with the too fluffy clouds. “It looks _too_ happy. I don’t know if it’s because I know you, or… it looks sarcastic. _Here’s your fucking flowers and your bright blue sky, go fuck yourself, I hate this and I hate you._ ” Ian said, shrugging his shoulders.

He continued after a moment of pause, forcing the words out, “It makes me feel angry at whoever made you think you had to paint this, because _this_ isn't for yourself. But at the same time… I dunno, it makes me kinda happy because it’s obnoxious and it’s a fuck you. And I like that. But I don't think that's the kind of happy you were aiming for.” 

Mickey was staring at him; he wet his lips; his arms were folded under his chest; he took measured breaths, like he was trying to figure something out. There was a very distinct, somewhat slow shift in the air. Ian felt warm all over —warm and tense. 

It wasn't helping that Mickey had this smudge of red paint on his upper-arm, like he’d had an itch there while he was working on his painting. It also wasn’t helping that when Mickey looked at Ian the way he did, he had this strong urge to lean him against the nearest surface and kiss him.

“Did I get it right?” Ian asked.

“Yeah,” Mickey said, his voice soft. He had stepped closer than he was before. Ian wasn’t sure when he had done that, but he had.

Ian swallowed hard, clenching and unclenching his fists in his lap. He’d known this guy for months now, they’d danced around each other —touched and flirted and teased until Ian was so fucked up over it that be became frustrated and more confused than he thought possible. 

There were all these impossibly complicated layers to Mickey Milkovich. He was like the walking personification of that painting of the wave. Ian was going to drown in him. It was going to be messy and scary and overwhelming. But goddamn if there wasn't something about him that made Ian feel okay about it, that made him at peace with it —because he was worth it. Mickey was completely worth it.

And that’s all there was. 

Mickey didn't move when Ian stood up. He didn't protest when Ian’s hands found their way to his hips and walked him backwards until his back hit a sliver of bare wall. When Ian slid his hands to hold either side of Mickey’s face, the brunette kept his eyes locked on Ian’s, eyes full of steel and heat. 

They fit against each other perfectly, Mickey’s furnace of a body warming Ian through the layers of clothing. He felt so good, so completely right.

Ian ran his thumb across Mickey’s bottom lip —his mouth was perfect and full and soft like the rest of his skin. So he leaned down, and Mickey let him ghost his lips over his mouth; his breath tasted like cigarettes and cinnamon.

Mickey curled his hands in the hem of Ian’s shirt. Ian pressed his lips against Mickey’s, breathing in the sigh that the shorter man breathed out, taking in all that soft and warm and holy fuck he was kissing Mickey Milkovich.

Then Mickey wrapped an arm around Ian’s waist, dragging their bodies together tighter, silently telling Ian that he was good with this. Ian slid a hand to cup the back of Mickey’s head, moving his lips slowly and with more pressure until he pulled another sigh out from the brunette. 

Ian’s stomach clenched and flipped and his head buzzed as he kissed Mickey, earning soft sounds and relaxed shoulders. Mickey was relaxing and it was _so_ good. It was all so fucking good, that Ian never wanted this to end, ever. 

He didn't think it could get any better until he tasted the inside of Mickey’s mouth. All hints of cinnamon and cigarettes and maybe a little coffee from earlier. And just a taste that Ian would identify as just the way Mickey tasted. 

They fucked each others mouth slow and hot, and it was fucking hot. Mickey’s arm tightened around his waist, his free hand sliding up his body to fist in Ian’s hair —that action alone making Ian moan into the brunette’s mouth, kissing him harder, biting at his bottom lip. Ian decided that he could kiss Mickey all fucking day.

But he couldn't kiss Mickey all day. He broke the kiss off slow, not wanting to, not wanting to be anywhere other than right here, pressed against Mickey, tasting Mickey’s mouth for the rest of the night. Ian brushed his lips across Mickey’s one last time before taking a step back. 

The shorter man was flushed and his already full mouth was swollen and slick, giving Ian more to think about. They were both breathing hard, both _were_ hard, and didn't say anything for a few minutes, just soaked in the sight of each other.

“I’ve got to go to work,” Ian’s voice didn't sound like his own. It was full of rasp and heat.

Mickey just nodded, a slow grin spreading over his lips.

 

* * *

 

Ian was in no way, shape, or form a barista. He could pour a cup of coffee though, and work a register. That was all that was needed for the week’s worth of shifts he managed to pick up at the university’s little coffee shop. He could only get these weeks here and there, and his shifts only lasted a few hours. It was almost not even worth it, but money is money, right?

People came in, gave the girl working with him their ridiculous order, he rang them up. If they just wanted plain coffee, he could handle that. Real simple and it paid _enough_. Plus, he liked the smell of coffee, so that helped.

Mandy came in and gave him a big tip, winking as she stuffed a ten dollar bill in the waist of his apron. Lip came in and hung around for a bit, flirting with the girl that actually knew what she was doing. He had made a big show of trying to decide what to order, asking about a dozen questions and playing the _“No, I said small, not tall.”_ game.

Ian was surprised when he saw Mickey walk in, but his face fell with he saw who walked in right after him: Terry.

His whole body tensed up, the back of his neck instantly flushing white hot. He couldn't tell if he was nervous or angry —probably a bit of both. Terry was like a bear when he walked in, lumbering, looking around like the fucking world owed him something, brows creased, mouth snarled. And Mickey wouldn't even raise his eyes from the floor after seeing Ian. He looked like he was holding his breath.

“Two coffee’s. Black,” Terry said before Ian could even open his mouth. His voice was everything Ian had expected —harsh, demanding, kind of flippant.

Ian nodded, ringing them up, “Anything else?”

“Nah,” Terry shook his head.

Then Mickey spoke up, looking at Ian finally, his eyes soft in a sort of _I’m sorry you have to interact with my psycho dad_ kind of way, “Ay, can I get sugar in mine?”

The corner of Ian’s mouth twitched in an almost half-smile.

But Terry snorted in disgust, “No, he’ll take his coffee like a man. Straight,” he said the last word with a harsh ending.

Ian’s stomach turned over; he forced himself not to roll his eyes. He clenched his fist at his side hard, wanting nothing more than to drive it into Terry’s jaw. Mickey shook his head just barely. Ian poured their coffees, slid them across the counter and watched them walk out of the door. Mickey lingered in the doorway for just a moment and looked back at him, gave him a little nod.

 

* * *

 

[Mickey 9:22 PM] Thanks for being cool around my dad the other day.

[Ian 9:24 PM] What did you think I was going to do?  
[Ian 9:24 PM] Reach over and kiss you right in front of him? 

[Mickey 9:25 PM] No. Just thanks for not, you know…

[Ian 9:25 PM] Acting like we know each other?

[Mickey 9:26 PM] He gets paranoid. Didn’t mean it like that.

[Ian 9:28 PM] I know.  
[Ian 9:30 PM] You’re a good kisser btw

[Mickey 9:31 PM] Shut up lol

[Ian 9:32 PM] I’m serious. It was fucking hot.   
[Ian 9:32 PM] You’re fucking hot.  
[Ian 9:33 PM] Can’t stop thinking about it since it happened.

[Mickey 9:34 PM] I am not sexting with you.  
[Mickey 9:34 PM] We are not in middle school.

[Ian 9:35 PM] Ugh you’re no fun. Adults do it too.

[Mickey 9:36 PM] I’m loads of fun.  
[Mickey 9:36 PM] You have no idea.

[Ian 9:27 PM] Prove it.  
[Ian 9:28 PM] Let’s go out. Just you and me.   
[Ian 9:29 PM] Like to a club. In Boystown.

[Mickey 9:30 PM] Not really my scene.

[Ian 9:31 PM] Have you ever been?

[Mickey 9:32 PM] Once.

[Ian 9:33 PM] And you didn’t like it?

[Mickey 9:33 PM] Geriatric viagroids trying to get me to go home with them.  
[Mickey 9:33 PM] Not really my thing.

[Ian 9:35 PM] Uh. Hello, you wouldn't be going to pick someone up.  
[Ian 9:35 PM] You’d be going home with me.

[Mickey 9:36 PM] Oh yeah?

[Ian 9:36 PM] Yeah.

[Mickey 9:37 PM] You wanna just fuck, we don’t need to go out for that.

[Ian 9:38 PM] Yeah well, I don’t just wanna fuck.

[Mickey 9:42 PM] Told you I can’t give you what you’re looking for.

[Ian 9:43 PM] And yet you let me kiss you. And touch you.  
[Ian 9:43 PM] You were the one that told me that I wasn’t just a fuck. I know you have feelings for me. And I have feelings for you too. You can't tell me otherwise.

[Mickey 9:55 PM] You don’t understand.

[Ian 9:57 PM] idk I think I do. From where I’m standing, it looks like we can fuck around all we want and have feelings for each other… but at the end of the day those feelings don’t mean shit. Because your dad is a fucking psycho.

[Mickey 10:00 PM] 1. Told you I don’t talk about him, unless it’s on my terms.  
[Mickey 10:00 PM] 2. Not having this conversation over fucking text.

[Ian 10:01 PM] So we can have it face-to-face?  
[Ian 10:10 PM] Yeah, thought so.

 

* * *

 

Ian had been laying in bed for most of the day, switching between watching bad TV and staring at the ceiling. He almost called Alex twice, even though he had no interest in fucking him. He just wanted to get Mickey Milkovich out of his mind.

Lip had called. They talked for a few minutes about nothing.

Mandy texted. He texted back. Nothing spectacular there, but she made him smile anyways.

He was moping around like some lovesick puppy and it was driving him up a fucking wall. Ian wanted to take Mickey out. He wanted to dance with him and wrap his arms around him, showing everyone who _he_ was going home with. Because Mickey was fucking beautiful and why not brag a little. Ian was so into Mickey, it was disgusting. 

He wanted to get Chinese take-out and sit around and watch stupid fucking movies and get high and laugh, and watch the way Mickey’s whole face lit up when he did so. 

And yeah, he wanted to fuck Mickey. He wanted to touch him everywhere and kiss him everywhere and bite and lick and suck every fucking inch of that stubborn, pale, blue-eyed idiot’s body. _Fuck_. 

Ian’s eyes shifted down to his lap and he sighed. “Again?”

 

* * *

 

His legs were burning, aching and wanting to give up, but he pushed harder. Sweat was rolling down his back; breath coming out harshly and painfully. Just a little further, focusing on the music in the background. One two three, one two three —hit hit hit hit, he chanted in his head, every time one of his feet slammed onto the track of the treadmill. Just a little further and he’d hit his five mile mark.

Tomorrow morning was going to be a bitch after running like this for five straight miles without a break. But he needed it. Sweat stung his eyes and he wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. Only a quarter mile to go. Cake.

One two three, hit hit hit hit turned into Mic-key sucks, fuck him fuck him. And it almost made him bark out an exhausted breath. Fuck him was right. _I’m trying_ , Ian thought. 

He was getting kind of hysterical, a goofy ass smile spreading across his face when he finally hit that five mile mark. He slowed his treadmill, wiping himself off with his towel and taking a drink of his water.

“You trying to run yourself into a fucking coma?” Mandy’s voice panted from the treadmill next to his.

“Working… through… some shit,” Ian panted back, now at a normal walking pace. He gripped the bars on either side of him as he walked. Fuck his legs felt all wobbly. He hadn't done that in a long time.

“Ah, the sexually frustrated college student,” Mandy said, “I’ve seen your kind walking around.”

“More like… emotionally frustrated,” Ian wiped at his face and neck again. “But yeah, sexually too… for real.”

“You wanna talk about it?”

“You really want to talk about me trying to get with your brother?” Ian asked, grinning over at her.

Mandy rolled her eyes, “You know I compartmentalize. It’s different. You’re my friend, _basically_ in love with this guy who has some major fucking issues with getting too close with someone. Because if his dad found out that not only was he fucking another dude, but in a _relationship_ with one… it’d be bad. Relationships are worse than fucking.”

Ian sighed heavy, his shoulders falling, “Logically, I know that. I know that uh… your dad is really kinda…”

“It’s okay, you can say it.”

“A gross, bigoted, abusive psycho prick,” Ian said. “And he’ll beat the shit outta Mickey. Obviously I don’t want anything bad to happen to him. No one does.”

“But it’s not fair that you two can’t be with each other because some small-minded asshole,” Mandy finished up for him. “I agree.”

“So what the fuck do I do?” Ian sighed, pushing his sweaty hair out of his face, “Apparently… flirting and touching and kissing is okay. Fucking would be okay. But beyond that, it’s like… _it’s there_ but… he can’t? He’s not allowed?”

“You’re like Romeo and Romeo,” Mandy said.

Ian groaned loudly, stopping his treadmill. He just stood there for a minute before looking over at Mandy, “I really like him. A lot.”

Mandy gave him a sympathetic smile, “I know you do, gorgeous.”

“I know I should be scared of your dad. But I don’t even give a shit. I just want to be with Mickey. Is that selfish?”

She shrugged, “If you ask me, it’s a good selfish —if it _is_ selfish, I mean.”

“What do I do, Mandy?”

Mandy stopped her treadmill and sighed, resting her hands on her hips as she breathed deep, “I can only imagine that his big issue is if it gets back to our dad. You know, someone seeing you guys out together and saying something.”

Ian frowned. Unfortunately that made sense. And what kind of relationship would it be, to be constantly cooped up in either one of their apartments, never being able to go out? That would be fucking awful.

“He’s not just looking out for himself, Ian,” Mandy said.

“You think your dad would try to come after me?” Ian raised his brows high.

She nodded, “Definitely.”

“Fuck.”

“I know,” she sighed.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh Mickey.


	7. March

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’re the one that wanted to have this out face-to-face, man,” Mickey said, shrugging his shoulders.
> 
> Ian’s brows shot up, completely surprised that Mickey would come to his place just so they could talk about them. He opened his mouth and closed it a couple times, unable to really get beyond the shock of this conversation actually being on the table.
> 
> “I thought… I didn't really think there was much to discuss. You know, since… it’s the way it is,” Ian said carefully.
> 
> Mickey nodded, eyebrow lifting. “Yeah, it’s the way it is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is really short & I'm sorry.

Everything was just so fucked up.

Being with Mickey meant that they could fuck, they could touch, they could like each other, feel things for each other… but it all had to be behind closed doors. Because of Terry.

He’d had half a mind to not open the door when a knock cut through the silence of his apartment. Somehow he knew it was Mickey even before he opened it. As much as he wanted to see Mickey, see those eyes and that hair and that face… it kind of tore him up.

“Can I come in?” Mickey asked. “I’ve got a class in like forty-five minutes.”

Ian sighed, moving out of the doorway so the shorter man could move past him. He closed the door, leaning against the partitioning wall between his kitchen and the rest of the space. Mickey kind of just stood there, between the little table and the bed, his hands shoved into his pockets.

“What’s up?” Ian asked. 

“You’re the one that wanted to have this out face-to-face, man,” Mickey said, shrugging his shoulders.

Ian’s brows shot up, completely surprised that Mickey would come to his place just so they could talk about _them_. He opened his mouth and closed it a couple times, unable to really get beyond the shock of this conversation actually being on the table.

“I thought… I didn't really think there was much to discuss. You know, since… it’s the way it is,” Ian said carefully.

Mickey nodded, eyebrow lifting. “Yeah, it’s the way it is.”

Ian had done the dirty-little-secret thing. He didn't want to go back to that. It made him feel like complete shit, being snuck off to hotel rooms or quick, desperate fucks in the most bizarre places that opportunity allowed —South Side is not kind to gay boys, like that. 

South Side presses gay boys against dumpsters, or on top of cement floors of abandon buildings, where broken glass pierces into their skin. Ian didn't want to go back to that… he also didn't want to go back to that fear that came with being a gay boy in his neighborhood.

“So that’s it?” Ian huffed, his shoulders falling. His stomach felt like it was melting or shredding, possibly both. This was fucking horrible. Not even dating the guy and he felt like they were breaking up.

“You think I like…” Mickey breathed hard, running a hand over his hair, “You think I like the way shit is? It’s fucking… it sucks, man.”

Ian stayed silent, his teeth clenching painfully.

“But I uh…” Mickey gestured a hand between them, “This —whatever the fuck this is, I don’t even know. Fuck it…you were right, okay? About me. About you. About… about us. You were right.”

“And you don’t think you can have that,” Ian’s voice was softer than he wanted it to be. Probably because all of his energy was too busy being spent on keeping his heart running properly.

“When I was sixteen, my dad caught me fucking this guy,” Mickey sighed. “And he uh… that motherfucker beat me so bad, and whipped me with a belt, that I got uh…” he trailed off and shook his head. “I don’t even wanna think about if he caught _me_ getting fucked, you know? This _is_ how it is.”

“Jesus Christ,” Ian breathed, scrubbing his face with the pads of his fingers.

“What you gotta understand is that he didn't touch that kid when that happened. But that was —that was fucking. It wasn’t real. And uh… thing is, you are,” Mickey’s face was creased and sad, and his eyes were kinda red underneath. He kept his eyesight trained on Ian’s shoulder for a moment before they flicked away.

Ian sighed, nodding his head —because what else was he supposed to do. Relationships are worse than fucking. His eyes were stinging, but he forced himself not to cry over something that never even fucking happened. It. Never. Even. Happened. They never even fucked. They kissed once. They had nothing. Right? Nothing.

So why did it feel like everything?

 

* * *

 

[Ian 3:45 PM] It’s over. Whatever it was.

[Mandy 3:46 PM] What’s over?

[Ian 3:48 PM] Me and Mickey. He ended it and just left.

[Mandy 3:49 PM] He broke up with you? Wtf why?

[Ian 3:50 PM] We weren’t together. There was no breakup.

[Mandy 3:50 PM] I’m going to fix this.

[Ian 3:51 PM] It’s fine. Probably for the best.  
[Ian 3:51 PM] It just sucks. But it’s fine.

[Mandy 3:52 PM] It’s not fine.

 

* * *

 

Thick white smoke curled up towards the ceiling. Ian sat on the floor, head lolled back, resting on top of the mattress. He held the joint up in the air, waiting until a hand reached over and carefully plucked it from his fingers.

“I mean… can you even get dumped by someone you were never going out with?”

Ian sighed, “I don’t even know.”

“You at least fuck?”

Ian closed his eyes, feeling his shoulders relax into the wave that washed over his body, “No Lip, we didn’t fuck.”

His brother maneuvered on his bed so that his head was next to Ian’s, “You didn't even fuck? Jesus. The hell were you waiting for?”

Ian narrowed his eyes at Lip, “The opportunity never presented itself.”

“I highly doubt that,” Lip said, handing Ian back the joint.

“I like him,” Ian shrugged, pulling hard on the joint. On exhale he said, “Wasn’t just about fucking, man.”

Lip made a strangled, groaning noise, “That’s why I don’t mess with that shit. Too complicated. What’re you doing for spring break?”

“Working probably. Why?”

Lip sighed, “Nah, I just thought, you know… maybe you should take advantage ofit and go fucking crazy. You know, week-long rebound style.”

Ian laughed, feeling himself start to float away, “Normally, I’d be all over that. But I dunno, kinda feels gross right now.”

“Weren’t you fucking someone for a while?”

“A few times. Alex.”

“Call him! The best way to get over someone is to get under someone else,” Lip knocked his hand against Ian’s shoulder. “Seriously, man.”

 

* * *

 

Ian called Alex. They didn't fuck, but the blonde ended up on his knees. Ian felt like a piece of shit. He didn’t really want Alex’s mouth around him like that, no matter how good it felt. He took an almost scalding hot shower afterwards, scrubbing his skin raw. Lip’s theory didn't work.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everybody breathe & say it with me... things get worse before they get better.
> 
> I feel like some asshole wagging a treat in front of a dog's face, who keeps taking it away before they can bite it. 
> 
> Thank you so much for all your comments/kudos etc! Much appreciated :)
> 
> Probably like 1-2 more chaps??? Not sure. Maybe I'll make it an even 10.


	8. April

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While he had his hands against his eyes, he heard a shuffle and a chair pull out from the other side of the table. He almost didn't want to take his hands down and see Mickey sitting across from him.
> 
> It wasn’t Mickey though. It wasn’t Mandy either. Ian just kind of stared at the scruffy guy across from him. He had a toothpick resting in the corner of his mouth, his brows kinda twisted up in a less-than-impressed sort of way.

It had been twenty days since Ian spoke to Mickey last. He’d seen him around campus, in the library, even at Shooters, but they didn't talk. Except for one time when they passed each other in the hallway leading to the bathroom at the bar. They accidentally bumped shoulders, mumbling an apology. It was… frustrating.

Ian missed the little conversations he and Mickey used to have. He missed the way Mickey looked at him. Every day he felt more and more pathetic about it. Lip tried to help, in his own way, he really did. But after so many times hearing that he should go hook up with some closeted Frat bro, Ian was kind of over listening to his brother dish out advice.

Mandy still hung out with him. They didn't talk about Mickey, not really. Ian wanted to ask about him countless times. He never did.

It wasn’t fucking fair. The fact that a psychotic, gay-bashing bastard was running his life, dictating who he couldn't be with, was making him sick. He wanted to be with Mickey. And maybe Ian should have said that they could just fuck… they could fuck and be together in secret and no one would find out. 

But neither one of them wanted that, because Ian knew that the minute he was _with_ Mickey, he’d be in too deep —no pun intended. He’d be beyond saving. It was just something he knew, like in his bones. Things with Mickey… they were intense and all-encompassing to the point where just thinking about being intimate with him made Ian feel like he couldn't breathe. It was all or nothing with him. 

Ian wanted it all. But he couldn't have any of it.

 

* * *

 

“Terry Milkovich is officially on probation,” Mandy grinned at Ian. She stepped onto the front of his treadmill, resting her elbows on the top, above the little screen.

“Really? I didn’t even know that was happening,” Ian panted, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. “How long?”

“A year. With a very strong warning that if he fucks up, he’s going straight to jail. The judge was _very_ unimpressed with him. I had to keep quiet about it, sorry.”

Ian lifted the corner of his mouth up in a half-grin, “Shit, it’s fine. Where does that leave his job?”

Mandy lifted her shoulders in a single shrug, “He won’t talk about it, but it’s not looking good. Colin and Iggy says he’s been at his place more than… wherever the fuck he goes to work. I don’t know his schedule. Fuck football.”

Ian panted out a laugh, his legs starting to burn a little from jogging three miles straight, “Well uh… congratulations?”

“Hell yeah congratulations,” Mandy sniffed, “Bastard is finally being shown some consequences.”

 

* * *

 

Ian pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, sighing heavily over his book. The library was weirdly empty except for him, and while the silence was normally nice, it was starting to drive him crazy.

While he had his hands against his eyes, he heard a shuffle and a chair pull out from the other side of the table. He almost didn't want to take his hands down and see Mickey sitting across from him.

It wasn’t Mickey though. It wasn’t Mandy either. Ian just kind of stared at the scruffy guy across from him. He had a toothpick resting in the corner of his mouth, his brows kinda twisted up in a less-than-impressed sort of way.

“You’re uh…” fuck, what was this one’s name?

“Iggy,” the guy said. “And you’re Ian. Ian Clayton Gallagher from South Side. Looked you up, hope you don’t mind.”

“Right,” Ian leaned back in his chair, not really sure what to expect. He’d never spoken to either one of Mickey’s brothers, never even waved or said a passing _what’s up_. “What’s going on?”

Iggy shrugged, moving his toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other. “Weren’t you and Mickey fucking for a while?”

His stomach bottomed-out from how Iggy just threw the question out there, like he were asking about the weather or something. “No…” Ian said, keeping his voice low.

“Oh,” Iggy’s brows twisted up again. “Well, why the fuck not?”

“I don’t really see how this is any of your business,” Ian said.

“You don’t see how that’s any of my… you’re funny man,” Iggy chuckled, scratching the side of his head. He then leaned his elbows on the table, “Something wrong with him? You don’t think he’s good enough for you?”

“What?” Ian was beyond fucking confused.

“I don’t like to get in my brothers business, that’s usually Mandy’s deal,” Iggy said, “But what the fuck, man?”

“What the fuck, what?” by this time, Ian was starting to get a little irritated. 

“My little brother goes from fucking miserable all the fucking time, to close to fucking happy, and then back to miserable. You tell me what the fuck what,” Iggy shrugged, a hard edge to his voice. 

The toothpick moved back to the other side of his mouth. Ian didn't know this guy at all, but whenever he did see him, he was kind of came off as laid back, if not a little goofy. But this was a different side to Iggy altogether. Like… he was in big brother mode.

He had a feeling Iggy wasn’t going to leave him alone without whatever he was looking for, “He ended whatever it was a while ago. We were never together, or fucking or anything. But it’s over now, so…”

Iggy took the toothpick out of his mouth; he frowned, “Why'd he do that?”

“Uh well, because of your dad. Because you know, relationships are worse than fucking, I guess… right?” Ian said. He didn't want to talk about this shit anymore, it was getting him all pissed off and sad again. “Listen, I got a lot of work—”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Iggy grunted, standing from his chair, “He’s such a fucking idiot. Jesus fucking _Christ_. We fucking told him we got his back, and this motherfucker just will not listen to a word we fucking say…” 

His voice trailed off as Iggy walked away; Ian couldn't understand the rest of what he was saying. So he just sat there, with his books and bottle of water, just staring at the chair that Iggy Milkovich was sitting in just moments before. 

“What the fuck?”

 

* * *

 

He was walking towards Shooters when someone grabbed him by the the hood of his jacket and hauled him into an alley. Ian flailed in the hold, his shoes scraping against the ground until his back was pushed up against a hard wall. Mickey was in front of him, holding him in place with a hand pushed into his chest. His face was hardened in a scowl; there was a bruise on his jaw, like someone had clipped him there. Ian felt his shoulders relax in slight relief.

“In what fucking world did you think it was okay to talk to my fucking brother about us?” Mickey snarled.

Ian shoved the brunette away, “Fuck you, Mickey. He came and tracked _me_ down at the fucking _library_. Why don’t you get your fucking story straight.”

“It’s none of his fucking business!”

“I didn’t bring it up to him!” Ian raised his voice to match the other man’s, letting it out. “He asked me a question. I answered. Actually, you know what —you don’t get to dictate all my conversations. It’s my business too. I can talk about whatever the fuck I want, with whoever the fuck I want.” 

Mickey huffed at him, raising a middle finger before turn his back to walk away.

Was he fucking serious? Ian gnashed his teeth and reached out to grab Mickey's jacket, spinning him around again, “Mandy told me that your dad’s on probation now, but I guess it _still_ doesn't matter, huh? Even though he can’t fucking touch you without going to jail, you’re still scared. You’re never gonna be happy, are you Mickey? What, are you gonna marry a woman next? Knock her up a couple times —let Terry name them?”

“You’re a fucking child,” Mickey snarled. “You don’t understand how any of this works —you’re out of your fucking depth.”

Ian rolled his eyes. This time he was the one walking away, tired of this. It hurt too much and made him to goddamn angry. “I understand plenty.”

“Fuck you,” Ian heard Mickey behind him.

“Can’t. Daddy might find out beat the shit outta you again,” Ian said just loud enough for Mickey to hear. 

Right as the words were spilling out of his mouth, he wanted to take them back. Low fucking blow. Not cool at all. He stopped walking and sighed, turning his head just in time to see Mickey’s face twisted in anger and FUCK coming towards his face.

And it hurt. It hurt real fucking bad. And Ian knew as soon as it happened, knew even _before_ it happened, that he deserved it. It didn't take away how much getting punched in the face by Mickey Milkovich hurt like a bitch though. Ian finally understood that the brunette's knuckles weren't an empty threat.

Ian stumbled back, holding onto his cheek, “Fuck!”

“You wanna run that by me again, motherfucker?” Mickey growled, advancing on Ian.

Ian hissed in pain, touching his cheek with the tips of his fingers, his other hand reaching out in front of Mickey in attempt to stop him, “Low blow, okay! Fuck! I’m sorry! Christ man, what do you have, built in fucking brass knuckles? Jesus!”

There was a long pause. Mickey was still there, standing in front of Ian. He watched him run his hands over his hair and sigh and pace back and forth in the alley, looking more like a caged tiger.

“I shouldn't have said that,” Ian sighed.

“You okay?” Mickey asked.

“Fine,” Ian said. He’d been punched many times before. He could handle it, even though he was pretty sure no one had hit him _that_ hard before. His cheek was pulsing; he’d probably have a nice shiner in the morning.

“Fuck,” Mickey sucked in a breath, stepping close to Ian to look at the damage, “That was fucking stupid of me.”

“I deserved it,” Ian shrugged, trying to ignore the flutter in his stomach when Mickey reached up and brushed his fingers over the spot he had punched.

Mickey shook his head and sighed, “No, I fucked up.”

“We both did, then. I gotta shut up sometimes.”

They caught each other’s eyes, realizing how close they were to each other. Ian was getting a little lost in that blue, surrounded by black lashes and pale skin. He was so beautiful and sad, that it tore Ian up. Everything came rushing back —it had never really left, but right then, looking at Mickey it all came back. How he felt. How Mickey felt. How badly he wanted to be with him.

“This isn’t fair,” Ian said. “It’s not right.”

“I know,” Mickey sighed.

Mickey’s eyes were shifting between Ian’s eyes and his mouth. Subconsciously or not, the brunette wet his lips, a soft exhale warming Ian’s face. Almost twenty seven days since he’d last talked to Mickey. More than that since he kissed him. Ian remembered how soft Mickey’s mouth was, how it just molded against his, how relaxed the brunette had been against him, how he had tasted.

“Mickey, I—”

Ian stopped short when Mickey wrapped a hand around the back of his neck and pulled him down until their lips were barely inches from each other. Ian’s breath caught in his throat, completely unaware of the ache in his cheek anymore. It all faded away, everything faded away. 

And then Mickey’s mouth, his soft full fucking mouth, was pressed against Ian’s mouth. Gentle at first, hesitantly. But the touch sent a firestorm through Ian’s veins, and together they just went at it, kissing hard, tongues and teeth and heavy breath. 

Ian walked them deeper into the alley, away from the sidewalk, walking them back and pressing Mickey against a wall, behind a dumpster. In the back of his mind, he hated that they were next to a dumpster. Fucking gross, but it kind of didn't matter. Because Mickey’s mouth was so nice and warm and felt so good against his own.

Ian pressed himself against Mickey, reaching a hand behind him to grab a handful of his ass, his _perfect_ ass. Mickey groaned into his mouth, his hands burying in Ian’s hair, tugging at it, making Ian groan back.

It wasn't nice or gentle or loving kissing. Ian was pissed. Mickey was pissed. They wanted each other, but couldn't be together and everything just fucking sucked. It wasn’t fucking fair. 

So yeah, they bit at each other and Mickey’d probably have bruises on his ass; Ian was sure that the brunette was leaving marks all over his neck from how hard he was biting and sucking at the skin there. They rutted against each other like a couple of high school freshmen looking to get off between classes. 

“Fuck, that’s good,” Mickey breathed heavily against Ian’s skin, he rocked his hips as Ian did the same.

Ian couldn't even form words anymore. He just nodded and grunted back, wedging his knee between Mickey’s legs, trying to get closer, press harder.

Mickey slid a hand between them, rubbing up and down Ian’s length through his jeans. Ian gasped out, pressing his forehead against Mickey’s, his hips stilling completely as Mickey kept rubbing at him in firm, deliberate stokes. He wanted those warm hand on his skin, wrapped around him. 

Ian caught Mickey’s lips again, kissing him slowly this time, drawing out his tongue and moaning softly into his mouth. He brought his hands to the front of Mickey’s jeans, undoing the belt and button and zipper; he spit in his hand and slipped it into Mickey’s boxers until he got what he was looking for.

“Jesus,” Mickey breathed, on the edge of whining, rocking his hips into Ian’s hold. He followed Ian’s lead until Mickey had his hands down Ian’s boxers as well, so they were both working each other at the same time. Open mouths brushing against each other, they gasped and cursed.

He missed how warm Mickey was, and under his hand like that, his fingers wrapped securely around his length, well… Ian wasn’t sure he’d ever felt this fucking good jerking someone off before, but it felt good to be doing this to Mickey. And the way that the shorter man was jerking him off, Ian knew he wasn't going to last long.

Why did they wait this fucking long to do this? And if _this_ felt this good, what would fucking feel like? The thought caused a tortured sounding groan to rip out of Ian, thinking of Mickey under him, running his mouth, stretched around him, he was probably even hotter on the inside. Ian’s mouth watered, feeling fucking filthy in the best way possible.

“Imm’na come,” Ian panted, feeling that wave of urgency wash over him.

“Me too,” Mickey pressed his mouth against Ian’s, swallowing up his breath and moan.

And right there, in a fucking alley, right next to a dumpster, pressed against a brick wall with their hands down each others pants, Ian and Mickey came crashing down together. Their whole bodies spasmed and jerked against each other, breath ragged and broken. Ian slumped heavily against Mickey, his face burying into the crook of his neck, listening to the brunette’s heavy, short grunts as he came down from his own high.

They cleaned up as best as they could —which, admittedly, wasn’t the best. Mickey, by sheer fucking luck, had a wad of tissues in his jacket pocket. They were silent, stealing glances at each other during this rushed process.

Ian didn't know what to say, so all that came out was a lame, “Sorry.”

But Mickey shrugged, “I’m not.”

“I’m not really, either,” Ian admitted with a grin. “I just… I dunno…”

Mickey nodded, “I know.”

Ian’s phone dinged in his pocket, “I gotta go inside. Lip’s waiting.”

Again, Mickey nodded, but kept quiet, “See you around?”

“Yeah,” Ian breathed out. Before he left, he leaned forward and brushed his lips against Mickey’s, hoping it wasn't for the last time. Mickey leaned into the kiss, his mouth relaxed and soft. “See you around, Mick.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> (Yes, I googled that.)  
> Also big-brother-Iggy, my love, my heart, my little shithead hustler ray of sunshine and dirt.


	9. May 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “The fuck are you doing, Red?”
> 
> Ian opened his eyes, looking up into the blue sky —that was now partially blocked by Mickey’s head as he looked down at him. Ian grinned, patting the spot next to him on the ground. But Mickey shook his head, giving him a face that clearly said you’re out of your goddamn mind if you think that’s happening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Split into 2 parts.  
> Because I can. :)

Mickey had another art show. Ian didn't know if it was a good idea if he went, but he did anyways. This time, he didn't recruit his brother for moral support. He didn't even tell Mandy he was going.

It took three cigarettes and a quick prayer for Ian to get up the courage to walk into the gallery. His hands were sweaty, his whole back full of tension. After what happened in the alley, Ian hadn’t seen or talked to Mickey. To be fair, a lot was going on, between papers and exams and _studying_ for exams and work, Ian had been kind of busy. He assumed that Mickey had been busy as well. Everyone was.

Mickey didn't see Ian when he walked in. Ian took advantage of that, hanging back behind a small group of people, so he could watch Mickey for a minute.

He had on this black button-down shirt _and an actual tie_. The guy looked good as hell in black. He had his hands shoved into his pockets, not really interacting with people who stopped and looked at his work. His face was pretty passive, evident of his mind being completely away from him.

There were only two paintings this time, both pretty standard, random objects, and both in full color —a pleasant surprise. It seemed to be a theme of the show though, everyone’s work was focused on objects that possibly held some significance to them. No portraits this time, no abstract pieces. It might have come off as boring, but it was interesting to see what kind of objects people had chosen to paint.

One of Mickey’s paintings included a pack of cigarettes, a beer bottle, a wad of cash, loose change, a couple tubes of paint, and a cheeseburger. It looked like all of these things had been tossed onto a table, the cheeseburger sliding apart, lettuce and tomatoes and onions spreading out everywhere. It kind of screamed _Mickey…_ to Ian at least.

The other painting was kind of the same deal, things just thrown onto a table. But these items included a water bottle, power bar, headphones, a couple loose cigarettes, and a pile of french-fries. It took a minute for Ian to realize that these were (possibly) things that Mickey associated with _him_. It was weird that those items kind of took his breath away and made him smile, but they did.

Something told Ian that he should just let Mickey be for the night. That walking up would probably feel like an ambush or something. The guy didn't even really look like he wanted to be there anyway. Maybe it was a bad move, maybe it wasn’t, but Ian left quietly, hoping that Mickey hadn’t seen him on his way out.

 

* * *

 

Ian ran into Mickey at the library. 

It took about five minutes before they were all the way in the back, behind rows of shelves, away from any prying eyes. Mickey had Ian pushed up against a whole section of atlas’, one of which was poking Ian square in the middle of the back, but he didn't even care.

They made out, kind of desperately and clumsily, laughing and grabbing at each other, trying to be as quiet as they could. But Mickey kept making Ian laugh with his fucking eyebrows doing that thing, so it was hard to keep quiet.

 

* * *

 

[Mandy 4:15 PM] Gym tonight?

[Ian 4:17 PM] I get off of work in like an hour.

[Mandy 4:18 PM] Good. I need some serious running therapy.  
[Mandy 4:18 PM] We need to go out sometime soon, or something.

[Ian 4:19 PM] Boy troubles?

[Mandy 4:20 PM] Me and Adam are getting a little too attached, and it’s a problem.

[Ian 4:21 PM] Wtf is with you Milkovich’s & the fear of commitment?

[Mandy 4:23 PM] lol HEY! It’s only a problem for me because this was not the agreement. There was an AGREEMENT and we’re getting all gross and attached. He left his fucking toothbrush at my apartment and I DIDN’T EVEN CARE.  
[Mandy 4:25 PM] The D is too good.

[Ian 4:30PM] omg Mandy.

[Mandy 4:31 PM] IT’S. TRUE.

 

* * *

 

“The fuck are you doing, Red?”

Ian opened his eyes, looking up into the blue sky —that was now partially blocked by Mickey’s head as he looked down at him. Ian grinned, patting the spot next to him on the ground. But Mickey shook his head, giving him a face that clearly said _you’re out of your goddamn mind if you think that’s happening_.

“Shouldn’t you be packing up your shit to go back home?” Mickey asked.

“Sticking around for a little bit,” Ian sighed through his grin. Going back home was kind of irritating now, especially since he got so used to living on his own. “Who knows, maybe I’ll just stay here. Got a job. Got a place to live.”

“Ain’t a bad setup,” Mickey said.

Ian hummed in agreement, “Pretty nice. Will you sit next to me at least, fuck, I feel like an ant down here.”

Mickey snorted a laugh and settled down next to Ian, resting back on his hands, “High maintenance.”

“Whatever,” Ian smirked. 

There was virtually no one around. Everyone was either on their way home, packing, or had left ages ago. So he reached over, slowly, and brushed his fingers across the back of Mickey’s hand.

Mickey’s eyes scanned all around them before he looked over at Ian and breathed a small laugh, “You’re fucking obnoxious.”

Ian just smiled, getting caught up in the moment. He kind of wished Mickey was laying next to him so they could just lay together and look up into the sky at the same time. He knew how fucking sappy that sounded. Mickey would probably make fun of him for it, too.

“Shouldn’t _you_ be packing?”

Mickey just shook his head, “My lease has another month.”

Ian rubbed small circles over Mickey’s hand; over the U-UP lettering on his knuckles. It was kind of a mindless motion, just wanting to feel that warmth of the brunette’s skin. Needing the contact. Mickey didn't seem to mind, so Ian kept at it as they sat in silence. He kept his eyes on the blue of the sky and exhaled.

“I uh… I went to your show,” Ian said.

Mickey looked over at him, “I know.”

Ian felt his stomach drop, his face heating up, “You did? Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Didn’t want to make it weird, like you’re doing now,” Mickey shrugged.

“I’m not making it weird,” Ian narrowed his eyes. Fucking rude.

Mickey grinned, dropping down to rest back on his elbows so he could see Ian better. How easy would it be for Ian to get up and cover Mickey’s body with his own and kiss him and… ugh. Mickey looked good in the sun like this. Ian ran his fingers up and down Mickey’s forearm, grinning when the brunette sighed at the touch. This was nice.

“I really liked them,” Ian said quietly, “The paintings.”

Mickey just nodded, his eyes flicking away to look somewhere else, “You have zero fucking chill, man. You know that?”

Ian chewed on his bottom lip to keep from laughing. Tentatively, he reached for Mickey’s hand, working his way between skin and grass until he slipped his fingers into the spaces between Mickey’s, their palms pressed together. Mickey stiffened a little, going back to looking around campus. Still no one around, no one important anyways.

“You’re always so warm,” Ian said.

“You know what they say about warm hands, right?”

“No, what do they say?”

Mickey relaxed, his thumb rubbing gently against the back of Ian’s hand, “Warm hands, cold heart.”

Ian rolled his eyes, “I thought it was cold hands, warm heart?”

“Do I have cold hands?”

“No.”

“Well, there you go,” Mickey shrugged.

Ian sighed, turning his head to follow his eyesight, watching Mickey carefully. The brunette had his head tilted back, sun on his face. He’d never seen him like this before, just completely relaxed and… well, there was no other way to describe it other than he felt like this was the first time he’d seen Mickey just _breathe_.

He slipped his hand out of Mickey’s and propped himself up on his elbows too, “You’re really kinda beautiful,” he said. Hadn’t meant for it to slip out, but it did.

Mickey side-eyed him, “Are you high?”

Ian laughed, shaking his head, “No, I’m just saying. Can you let me have my fucking moment, please.”

“Zero fucking chill,” Mickey rolled his eyes.

 

* * *

 

Ian had his hand shoved down Mickey’s pants in the Shooters bathroom. They kissed until their lips were red and swollen. Mickey kept trying to slip his hand down Ian’s pants, but Ian just wanted this to be about Mickey. 

He looked so fucking hot in the shirt he was wearing, that Ian couldn't even stand it. What was it about long-sleeve Henley shirts that were so fucking sexy? Fuck. It just fit him perfectly, and it was dark gray and Mickey looked sexy, and Ian’s whole mouth just watered at the sight. It really wasn't fair.

Mickey was close to whining, his fingers digging into the back of Ian’s neck; Ian had him shoved against the stall door, pinning him so he couldn't move.

“Fucking _christ_ Ian,” Mickey panted.

Ian groaned at the way Mickey said his name like that, drawn out and desperate and _holy fuck I’m gonna come in like two seconds, keep doing what you’re doing_.

 

* * *

 

[Ian 9:45 PM] Hey.

[Mickey 9:48 PM] Hey.

[Ian 9:50 PM] Are you busy?

[Mickey 9:51 PM] No, just painting.

[Ian 9:52 PM] Cool. What are you painting?

[Mickey 9:54 PM] A picture.

[Ian 9:55 PM] You’re such a shithead.  
[Ian 9:55 PM] Are you busy this weekend?  
[Ian 9:56 PM] I was thinking we could do something.

[Mickey 9:58 PM] I’ve got this stupid fucking dinner at my dad’s.  
[Mickey 9:58 PM] After?

[Ian 10:00 PM] Okay.  
[Ian 10:02 PM] Would it be weird if I called you?  
[Ian 10:02 PM] Just to like talk, I guess.

[Mickey 10:03 PM] You’re gonna make it weird, now lol  
[Mickey 10:04 PM] But idc if you call me.

Ian took a deep breath and called Mickey. He really just wanted to hear his voice, was bored in his apartment, just laying around. Having the night off, his mind kept wandering to Mickey, looking at the drawing that he made of Ian. Ian kept thinking of Mickey’s hands creating it, of how he looked at him with all that heat in his eyes. Okay so yeah, he was a little horny, so what.

Mickey answered after a couple rings, “Sup?”

Ian grinned, feeling a gross bubble of sunshine and rainbows form in his chest. “Nothing, I’m bored.”

Mickey snorted, his voice teasing, “Glad to know I’m your go-to for when you’re bored. Thought I was special, Red. The fuck?”

“You uh… you want me to make it up to you?” His whole face heated when he said it, Ian was so glad Mickey couldn't see his face.

There was a pause, and then, “Holy shit, did you call for phone sex?”

Ian made a _pfft_ noise with his mouth, “What are you talk—”

“You fucking did, didn’t you? You horny motherfucker.”

Ian gnawed at his bottom lip, “I didn't call for phone sex.”

“You sound less than convincing.”

“Why do you always have to torture me like this, and call me out on shit?” Ian laughed.

Mickey breathed out a laugh against his phone, “I dunno, I guess it’s kinda… uh, it’s kinda cute or whatever when you get all, you know… flustered.”

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah.”

Ian ran his hand up and down his stomach, “So what are you painting? For real.”

“It’s nothing right now,” Mickey sighed, “Just making a fucking mess at this point.”

“Paint everywhere, huh?” Ian felt his body tighten up at the thought. Oh fuck.

“Uh… yeah,” Mickey said.

“Is it weird that I think it’s really hot when you’ve got paint all over your hands?”

“You like that?” Mickey asked; Ian could hear the smile in his voice.

“Yeah. I like it. Like, a lot,” Ian said.

“Well, you’d have a fucking field day with this shit right now,” Mickey said, his voice a little low.

Ian didn't mean to let out a little grunt of appreciation, but he did.

“What are you doing?” Mickey asked.

Ian’s hand froze over the waistband of his boxers. This was probably the most fuckboy conversation he'd had in a long time, but he was kind of okay with it. “Just… laying in bed.”

“You know, I gotta get you back for that shit you pulled at the bar,” Mickey said.

“Looking forward to it,” Ian grinned. He reached further down and grabbed a hold of his erection through his boxers.

“Getting kinda late, huh?”

Ian’s face fell; he blinked, “I guess…”

“I should probably clean all this up,” Mickey sighed.

Hold on. This evasive little shit. Ian brought his brows together, “You don’t know how to dirty talk, do you?”

“Fuck off, of course I do,” Mickey huffed.

“You wont sext with me. You’re dodging my _carefully_ crafted phone-sex maneuvering… Mickey Milkovich, you can’t talk dirty,” Ian felt like he won a fucking prize, a smile spreading over his face. “Why is that so adorably _hot_?”

“First of all, fuck you for associating that word with me. Second of all, excuse the fuck outta me for preferring to talk dirty in person, like god intended.”

Ian groaned through his smile, “Okay, okay. I’ll get you to, one day.”

“Sure you will, tough guy,” Mickey replied.

 

* * *

 

There was shouting on the other side of his apartment door. Shouting followed by someone knocking heavily. Ian almost didn't want to answer it, but when he recognized Mandy’s voice, he all but ran to the door.

All four of the Milkovich children stood outside his apartment. But it was hard to really focus on that when a battered and bloody Mickey was flanked by both Iggy (who had a busted lip, and matching bruises on the inner corners of his eyes) and the other one… Colin? Colin (who had a pretty serious bruise and cut on his cheek). 

Ian didn't know what to do right away; Mickey looked like he walked off of the set of a fucking horror movie, his whole face coated in blood, but he gave a pained smile. His white teeth were stark and kind of ominous against the deep red blood.

“What…”

Mandy folded her arms under her chest, “He wouldn't go to the fucking hospital, wanted to come straight here.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... to be continued  & wrapped up in a few days.  
> One more chapter to go!
> 
> I cannot thank everyone ENOUGH for all the amazing comments and the love that's been shown for this. It's been really fun to write & you best believe to expect some hot action next chapter. Just saying.


	10. May 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Thanks,” Mickey sighed, his voice soft, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. “Sorry I just showed up like this. I just uh… kinda needed to see you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, in honor of everyone sticking around this fucking long for these two to finally get it on and be together, I give you... over 8k words that include the hot & dirty. And also the cute & fluffy.
> 
> Content Warning: I guess you could say explicit sex scenes.  
> And my obvious ignorance on what happens after you break probation. But anyway fuck Terry, right? Yeah

“What the fuck happened?” Ian asked, ushering in everyone so Mickey could sit down on his little couch. Iggy and Colin both grinned with Mickey. Mandy busied herself inside of Ian’s freezer.

“This stupid motherfucker baited our dad. On purpose,” Mandy said, coming to stand next to Ian. She handed a baggy of ice to Iggy, who passed it to Mickey. “Right in the middle of dinner, dad’s yelling at Mickey, making a fucking ass out of himself. Then this idiot tells me to call the cops then proceeds to just… I don’t even know, he stands up and starts running his fucking mouth!”

Ian felt like his head was spinning, “What?”

“It was fucking epic, man,” Iggy shook his head. “I mean, bad… I thought for sure dad was gonna kill him this time. But _shit_ , you shoulda fucking seen it! _I’m fucking gay, motherfucker!_ Ho-ly shit. Dad turned ten fucking shades of purple before he snapped.”

“No, no… it got better, the longer it took for dad to freak out. Shit, bro, what did you say about sucking dick?” Colin laughed, his eyes darting around as he tried to remember.

Mandy rolled her eyes and sighed, her voice completely unimpressed, “I get on my knees for other boys, dad, I suck dick like a champ and I fucking love it.”

“Yes!” Iggy and Colin both crowed; Iggy covered his face while he laughed.

Ian couldn't keep his eyes off of Mickey, who held the baggy of ice against the side of his face, still giving one of those pained smiles. He didn't have the ability to form any words in reaction to this. What the fuck was he thinking? Terry could have fucking killed him. Why would he do something like this?

“And uh… oh! He started talking about this dude he fucked in high school on dad’s fucking bed! On his bed! His _bed!_ ” Iggy had tears gathering in his eyes from laughing so hard. “ _Yeah, Robbie Carter fucked me on your bed, motherfucker! I took it! He fucked me good and hard, like a little bitch!_ Bro… mad props for tonight. Scary as hell, but you’re okay, and seriously… I don’t know if I woulda had it in me to do that.”

Mickey still stayed silent, still looking at Ian, still with that smile. That _I did it_ smile. _I beat him. He’s gone._

“You need to go to a hospital,” Ian told Mickey.

“That’s what I’ve been saying for the past hour and a half,” Mandy huffed. “He’s probably got a fucking concussion or something.”

“I’m fine,” Mickey sniffed, his voice a little hoarse, “The paramedic said I was fine. Just need a shower. I’ll stay awake for a while.”

“Uh, no. The paramedic said you should probably consider going in to get your fucking head checked. You said, _nah man, I’m good,_ ” Mandy huffed. 

“He just got a little cut on his head,” Colin said, “That’s why he was bleeding like a motherfucker. Me and Igg’s checked him, he’s good. Nothing broken. Dude’s a fucking trooper, right Mick?”

“Thank you Dr. Milkovich,” Mandy hissed. 

Mickey gave an easy groan, nodding his head, “I’m good. If I needed to go, I would fucking go.”

Mandy reached over and squeezed Ian’s arm, “My dad… he’s gonna get locked up. Don’t know for how long, but it’s happening, for sure.”

Ian still barely had the words. He couldn't take his eyes off of Mickey, this weird mix of heartbreak, pride and fear all swirling together.

“We’ll uh… we’ll leave you two alone,” Iggy coughed, “C’mon Mandy.”

Mandy wrapped her arms around Ian; he returned the hug. She then leaned back, pushed his hair out of his face and smiled, “Call me tomorrow, okay?”

Ian nodded.

Mandy looked over at Mickey, her eyes glassing over, “What you did was fucking stupid, and I’m so pissed at you, I can barely look at you right now. So fuck you for doing what you did, for putting me through that shit. Fuck you, Mickey. Your my brother and I love you. But, fuck you. Can’t stand you right now.”

“Mands, I’m sorry,” Mickey sighed, his eyes flicking over towards her.

“He could have killed you,” she said, wiping roughly at her eyes. Ian rubbed his hand up and down her arm and leaned over to press his lips to her temple.

Mickey leaned back against the couch with a wince, “Had to do it.”

“I know. I know you did. I’m glad you’re okay. But I’m still mad at you,” she breathed before giving Ian’s shoulder one last squeeze and following Iggy and Colin out of the door.

Ian ran a hand over his hear and sat next to Mickey on the couch. Jesus, he was a mess. Under all the blood, he could see the scratches and scrapes and bruises. Mickey stayed silent, just letting Ian look at him as much as he needed to. He brought his hand up to the side of his face to clumsily scratch there, wincing when he did. Ian finally saw Mickey’s hands, busted and bloody knuckles.

“So, what… you think you can just show up at my place all broken and bloody and expect that I’ll take care of your ass?” Ian teased, having to relieve some of the tension in the air.

Mickey grinned, painfully laughing as he held his left side, “Worth a shot. Thought I’d get some of that Nurse Gallagher action.”

“Luckily for you, as a South Side native, I am well versed in after-fight care,” Ian snorted. “You really should have went to the hospital though.”

“It’s looks worse than it is,” Mickey shrugged. “I feel fine. I feel fucking great.”

Ian wanted to kiss him so bad, but it wasn't the time. Instead, he stood from the couch and sighed, “Let’s get you cleaned up, come on.” Mickey took the hand that Ian offered, standing up with a grunt.

It was all strangely clinical —though maybe it wasn't strange. Mickey was hurt, Ian was cleaning him up —so it wasn't sexual. But it was the first time that Ian had seen Mickey’s body without all his clothes. The dirty, bloodstained clothes that were piled up in the corner of his small bathroom. 

The shower was running warm, not too hot. Mickey stood there, head kinda tilted forward, looking like he was trying to work out the events of the night in his head, trying to soak it all in. Ian rubbed the back of his bare shoulders; Mickey’s skin was that glowy pale that fascinated Ian, stained with blood and dirt. 

As he helped him into the shower, climbing in after, Ian noticed a couple long thin scars across Mickey’s back. Ian winced at the sight, remembering what the brunette had said about his dad getting to him with a belt when he was sixteen. Jesus fucking Christ, this guy had been through hell and back.

Ian made quick, careful work of helping Mickey wash away the blood and dirt from his skin, watching the bright red coat the bottom of his shower and swirl down the drain. It really did look like Mickey had stepped out of a horror movie and into his apartment. His sides were a mess of bruises and scratches, and Ian finally saw the bruising around his throat, as if someone had tried to strangle him. No, as if _Terry_ had tried to strange him. His own fucking son. What kind of monster…

“You doing okay?” Ian asked softly, gently running his fingers into Mickey’s hair, trying to break up the blood matted in there.

Mickey groaned, “Fuck yeah. Feels good.”

Ian gave a half smile, “Where’s the cut on your head?”

“Around here,” Mickey said, lifting a banged up hand to point to just beyond his hairline, “Fucker got me with his ring.”

Ian tilted Mickey’s head back so he could see what he was working with. It was just a small cut, barely anything really, from what he could tell. But cuts on the head bleed the worst. When Ian was in second grade, this kid got hit on the head with a rock on the playground. Blood was _everywhere_ , scaring all the children, it looked like the kid was fucking bleeding to death. But in the end, it had only been a little tiny cut.

After the shower, Ian helped Mickey out, giving him a pair of his own clean boxers and a shirt. They settled down on Ian’s bed, and Ian wanted to hold Mickey, wanted to wrap himself around him and keep him safe by his side, but he didn't want to hurt him; there were bruises everywhere, and despite the fact that Mickey was moving around pretty well, the sight of him was a lot to take in.

So instead, Mickey laid back against the pillows and Ian laid on his side, facing Mickey, wrapping his hand gently around the brunette’s upper arm.

“Thanks,” Mickey sighed, his voice soft, his eyes fixed on theceiling. “Sorry I just showed up like this. I just uh… kinda needed to see you.”

Ian rubbed at Mickey’s skin with his thumb, “It’s cool, don’t worry about it. Do you uh… do you wanna talk about it?”

“Nothing to really talk about, man,” Mickey said. “I mean, I know it’s fucked up but… I just got my dad sent to jail, you know? He fucking deserved it, but I baited him. He just wouldn't stop —I didn’t plan that. He’s always… fuck. He just never fucking stops. He wouldn't shut up.”

Ian squeezed Mickey’s arm, “He’s put you through hell, Mick.”

“I know. I hate him… but it’s like, he’s still my fucking dad. That fucked up?”

“Nah,” Ian shrugged. “I think it’s like… this primal thing. There’s always gonna be this little part of a kid that’s like, sympathetic or some shit, no matter how fucked up their parents are.”

“I feel like I ruined his fucking life,” Mickey mumbled.

“You didn’t. Can’t think that way,” Ian said, “He ruined his own life by being the way he is… beating on you and shit. It’s not right.”

Mickey brought his hands up to his face, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. He exhaled slow and broken, “He’s a motherfucker.”

Ian reached over and ran his hand up and down Mickey’s stomach, trying to comfort him, “Yeah, he is. I hate him too.”

Mickey breathed out a laugh, turning his head to look at Ian, his eyes a little red around the edges, “Come here for a second.”

Ian gave Mickey a soft smile, knowing what he wanted. He scooted closer and leaned forward until his lips brushed against the brunette’s. Mickey, with a slight pained sound, turned his body towards Ian more, reaching a hand up to cup the back of his head, deepening the kiss.

That soft mouth Mickey had on him was going to be Ian’s undoing. The brunette worked his lips against his slow, and it sent a chill down his spine.

“Probably shouldn't start up with this,” Ian breathed against Mickey’s mouth.

“I’m good. It’s okay, I want this,” Mickey breathed back, “I want you.” He rubbed and tugged at Ian’s hair; it felt so good to hear that and feel what Mickey was doing to him that Ian couldn't stop the moan in the back of his throat.

“Yeah but… I don’t want to hurt you,” Ian said.

Mickey groaned, defeated, “You’re killing me, Red.”

Ian grinned, gingerly wrapping an arm around Mickey’s waist, bringing their bodies flush against each other. He kissed Mickey again, licking and biting gently at his lips, “We can still do this though.”

The brunette wedged his knee between Ian’s legs, bringing their bodies even closer his hand sliding down out of Ian’s hair, down his back and grabbing a handful of his ass, making Ian shudder. 

“What about this?” Mickey asked, his voice thick, his thigh pressing right up against Ian with just the right pressure. “Can we do this?”

“You’re not gonna make this easy for me, are you?” Ian panted, rocking his hips.

“When have I ever?”

Ian grunted a laugh, screwing his eyes shut, “You’re an asshole. I’m supposed to be taking care of you, remember?”

“I’m not made of fucking glass, here. I’m just banged up,” Mickey said, working his mouth among Ian’s jaw, tonguing and tasting the skin there. “Nothing’s broken,” He slipped his hand down the back of Ian’s boxers, back to grabbing at his ass. “No major injuries. I’m good.”

Ian pushed lightly at Mickey until he was flat on his back. Mickey looked over at him with heat in his eyes; Ian was painfully fucking hard, it wasn’t even right. The brunette was all bruised up and had gone through hell, he shouldn't be wanting to fuck him like this, _or_ do anything else.

Before Mickey could say anything, Ian found himself crawling over him, hovering directly over his body, hands on either side of Mickey’s ribs, making sure not to touch him. Mickey’s eyes were blown out and wide, his breath kind of labored in anticipation. 

“Change your mind?” Mickey wet his lips and grinned.

“I’m taking care of you,” Ian whispered. He leaned down and pressed his lips against Mickey’s, slipping his tongue between his lips, tasting him. Mickey ran his hands up and down Ian’s sides, his legs bending and moving to give Ian more room to settle on top of him.

Carefully taking Mickey’s hands in his own, Ian moved them so they were resting above the brunette’s head. Ian’s mouth watered, looking down at Mickey like that, having him under him, in his bed, so blatantly fucking wanting him. Fuck.

He reached down and slid Mickey’s shirt up, exposing that pale skin that probably made the bruises look much worse than they felt. He scooted down a little, pressing his lips to the center of Mickey’s sternum, sighing against his skin when he felt hands brush into his hair. He dragged his tongue across Mickey’s flesh, tasting the warmth and that addicting _Mickey_ taste.

Mickey exhaled, his fingers brushing through Ian’s hair again. So Ian kept working his mouth on Mickey’s skin, sliding down lower on his body, making sure not to touch any of the bruises. 

Ian wasn’t necessarily a rough person by nature —he had it in him to be rough, to fight or manhandle or fuck with everything he had… but he wasn’t used to being so purposefully gentle, not like this. He was surprised that it came so easily to him though.

Mickey arched and breathed under him, “Fuck, look at me.”

Ian grinned, tilting his head up to look at Mickey. The brunette was chewing on his bottom lip, propping himself up on one elbow. Ian kept his eyes on Mickey’s, dipping down to drag his tongue right above the band of Mickey’s boxers.

“So fucking hot,” Mickey murmured, his hips rocking just barely.

“Lay back down,” Ian said, not wanting Mickey to strain himself or something.

Mickey shook his head, “Wanna watch you.”

Ian crawled back up Mickey’s body, pressing their lips together, tasting the inside of his mouth, making them both groan into each other. He reached down with one and hand slipped it under Mickey’s boxers, wrapping his fingers around him firmly, “Wanna watch me what?”

“I uh…” The shorter man bucked his hips into Ian’s hold, his pale, bruised skin flushing red, “Come on, man”

Ian arched a brow at him, squeezing lightly at him, “Wanna watch me what?”

Mickey groaned, pressing his forehead against Ian’s; the brunette hooked his hand around the back of Ian’s neck, keeping his eyes closed. “I wanna watch you wrap that pretty fucking mouth around my cock, is what I wanna watch.”

Ian stilled, losing a little breath; his eyes went wide, his mouth dropping open a little. Okay so that was fucking unexpected… and hot as hell. Ask and you shall fucking receive. Ian’s mind went completely blank for a second as he soaked in how hard he got from Mickey’s words.

Mickey grunted, his face still flushed, voice soft, “You gonna put that open mouth to use or no?”

“Yeah?” was the only word he could breathe. This whole thing Mickey had going on, kind of bossy, but still kind of soft-voiced with the dirty talk thing was _really_ getting him going.

Mickey leaned forward and kissed Ian kind of roughly, holding the back of his head. He pulled back and breathed against his lips, “Fuck yeah.”

Ian didn't need to be told twice. He slid back down Mickey’s body, tugging gently at his boxers, sliding them completely off, and with one last look up at the brunette, wrapped his mouth around him, his eyes fluttering closed. Because holy fucking shit, the taste of this man. He didn't want to taste anyone else ever again. He could fucking live on this taste, and the feel of the hot weight of Mickey inside his mouth.

Mickey had a hand fisted in Ian’s hair as he went to work, swallowing him down, working him with his hand, looking up at the brunette. Mickey made the best sounds. Mickey groaned and grunted and made these breathy little whines in between these quiet but filthy words.

And then Mickey’s right leg trembled. Fucking _trembled_ as he arched and whined. It drove Ian even crazier; it was probably his favorite thing a guy could do when he was painfully keyed up: the leg shake. Not everyone did it —Ian didn't even do it. But damn when it happened… you knew you were on the right fucking track. Just seeing and feeling that made Ian groan low around Mickey.

“Fuck,” Mickey gasped out, rocking his hips up into Ian’s mouth, “Feels so fucking good, _so_ fucking good.”

Ian worked Mickey with his hand, giving his mouth a break, “Like that?”

Mickey nodded, “Yeah… yeah, I like that — _fuck_.”

“Gonna come for me?” Ian asked, grinning.

Mickey bit his bottom lip, “Yeah,” he breathed. 

Mickey’s hands fisted in the sheets, his busted knuckles turning white. Ian swallowed him down again, working him until Mickey gave a soft warning right before he came. Ian drank him all down, holding Mickey deep in his mouth until he was a shaking, panting mess.

“Goddamn,” Mickey groaned when Ian slid back up his body, settling in against his side —gently, making sure not to touch his ribs. 

Ian snorted a laugh, running a hand up and down Mickey’s stomach, like he was doing before, “You feel better now?”

“Much,” Mickey sighed, “Here, roll over—”

“No,” Ian laughed, “It’s part of the Nurse Gallagher package.”

Mickey laughed loudly, wincing a little and holding his side, “That’s a good deal.”

“I’d say.”

Mickey sighed and stretched, “Thanks, man.”

Ian kissed Mickey’s shoulder, “Get some sleep.”

 

* * *

 

Ian shoved a piece of salmon sashimi into his mouth, “You know, I don’t think the vegetarian gods will be very pleased with this.”

“The vegetarian gods can suck my dick,” Mandy rolled her eyes. “Plus, this barely counts. It’s fish. Anyways, it’s not like I’m vegetarian for some kind of moral stance or whatever. I can have a cheat day.”

“Hmm, true.” Ian took a drink of his water.

“So how is my idiot brother?”

“Why don’t you call him and ask?” Ian asked.

Mandy sighed, “You’re aware of how this whole _I’m holding a grudge because my brother just about gave me a fucking heart attack_ thing works, right?”

Ian grinned, “He’s good.”

“Good,” Mandy nodded. “Ian, I swear to god, that was the scariest shit I’ve ever seen in my life.”

“I can imagine. Any word on your dad?”

Mandy shrugged, “Nope.”

She obviously didn't want to talk about it, by the way her face fell in this passive-stone expression. “What’s going on with you and Adam?”

That made her grin, “Adam has invited me to his family’s cabin for the weekend.”

“Very nice,” Ian grinned back. “Gonna get more of that good D?”

Mandy laughed, throwing her head, back, “I shouldn't have told you that!”

Ian shrugged, “Oh well, too late now.”

“Speaking of D…”

Ian rolled his eyes, “I’ve been a little, I dunno, nervous to like…”

“Still?” Mandy’s eyes widened, “Dude, it’s been like almost a week!”

“I know!” Ian sighed, “I want to! Fuck, I want to. I just… he was so fucked up that first night. He looked like Carrie.”

“Carrie?”

“Stephen King… prom… pigs blood? No? Nothing? Have you lived?” Ian laughed.

Mandy flipped him off and smiled, “Fuck you. Still though… Ian… come on. Is he… eh, is he, you know… nervous too?”

Ian shook his head, “Not at all.”

“Uh, then you should probably trust him on this.”

He sighed, “I know.”

 

* * *

 

[Lip 3:10 PM] Are you coming back home anytime soon?

[Ian 3:15 PM] Probably visit over the weekend or something.  
[Ian 3:16 PM] Crazy shit went down.

[Lip 3:17 PM] You okay?

[Ian 3:17 PM] Yeah. Terry Milkovich is going to jail though.

[Lip 3:19 PM] Holy fuck. What happened?

[Ian 3:20 PM] He beat the ever-loving shit outta Mickey.  
[Ian 3:21 PM] Mickey kinda-sorta baited him. Keep it to yourself though.

[Lip 3:23 PM] I’m not an idiot. I know.  
[Lip 3:23 PM] Talk about taking one for the team. Fuck. He okay?

[Ian 3:24 PM] Yeah. Banged up real bad, but surprisingly okay.  
[Ian 3:25 PM] He’s been at my place.

[Lip 3:27 PM] Playing house, are we?

[Ian 3:28 PM] More like playing doctor.

[Lip 3:30 PM] Ugh. Dude.

[Ian 3:31 PM] lol not like that.

[Lip 3:32 PM] Alright well, I’ll let Fi know.  
[Lip 3:33 PM] Wrap it before you tap it, lil bro.

[Ian 3:35 PM] Thank you. Wouldn’t know what I would do without your wisdom.

 

* * *

  

Ian shifted the brown paper bag in his arms, the smell of Chinese food slowly taking over the entire hallway of Mickey’s apartment building. It was eerily quiet since most of the tenants in the building had went back home for the summer, much like Ian’s apartment building was. On the other hand, it was kind of nice, in a weird way.

It took Mickey a couple minutes to open the door after Ian knocked. As soon as Ian saw him, his whole body went all hot. The brunette had been painting, stains of smudges and splatters covering his hands and halfway up his arms. Ian didn't know a lot about the actual process of painting, but it seemed like Mickey was unnecessarily messy.

“Hey,” Mickey said, his eyes dragging up and down. He stepped out of the way for Ian to walk past him.

His bruises had faded considerably, any swelling was gone, and he moved around with relative ease now, only wincing once in a while. But the guy was popping ibuprofen a couple times a day, so that was helping.

“Brought Chinese,” Ian holds up the paper bag, looking around the apartment. 

It’s a little bigger than Ian’s place, but not by much. The bedroom is separate from the rest of the space though, so that’s cool. There’s canvas everywhere; it looks more like an art studio than an apartment. It makes Ian grin, looking back at Mickey —who was watching him. The air is kind of thick, kind of charged with that _just a_ _couple of college kids wanting to fuck more than anything_ vibe.

Ian’s not really hungry anymore. Mickey’s still watching him, taking the paper bag carefully out of his hands and setting down on the little table. Jesus Christ, Ian’s already getting hard.

Ian clears his throat, “How’s the painting going?”

Mickey sighs, stepping close to Ian. He wets his lips and reaches for Ian’s belt buckle, “Don’t really feel like small talk, man.”

Ian can only nod, looking down at Mickey’s paint-stained hands working the button and fly of his jeans. Ugh why was that so fucking hot? Paint. Fucking paint. 

Mickey presses him against the wall behind him; Ian inhales sharply, his body tightening like a coil. He grabs the back of Mickey’s head and slants his mouth against the brunette’s, kissing him hard. He wants Mickey so fucking bad; Mickey is pushing at his jeans, pushing them down his hips, making Ian groan in anticipation.

“Want you,” Ian breathes.

Mickey doesn't reply with anything other than dropping heavily to his knees, yanking Ian’s jeans down to the middle of his thighs as he goes.

Ian can’t even speak when Mickey works his mouth down his length. His mouth completely fucking fails him. Mickey’s mouth is hot perfect and his lips, fuck his lips wrapped around him like that. Ian closes his eyes and tilts his head back against the wall, letting out a low groan. His knees threaten to give out, every hair on his body stands on end. This is fucking heaven.

He fists Mickey’s hair, looking down to see blue eyes looking up at him and fuck, much longer of this and Ian’s not going to last.

“Wa… wait,” Ian whines out.

The brunette slips his mouth off of him, his brows creasing, “S’wrong?”

Ian shakes his head, taking deep breaths, trying to fucking calm himself, “Bed,” is all he manages to say. Where did his words go?

Mickey stands up and presses himself against Ian, kissing him hard again. He reached between their bodies and wrapped a hand around him —already slick and aching. Ian’s hips jerked as Mickey swallowed his moan.

He feels kind of desperate at this point, grabbing at Mickey’s ass and rocking into that tight grip that the shorter man has on him. Mickey’s working his mouth against his in the best way, biting and sucking on his lips; Ian’s completely lost in it.

Somehow they get to Mickey’s bed. It’s bigger than Ian’s bed, with dark sheets and has an actual frame, instead of Ian’s box-spring and mattress thrown the on the floor. 

It all kind of moves in a hot, desperate blur. Ian’s clothes get tugged off. Mickey’s clothes get tugged off. Ian can’t stop kissing Mickey and Mickey is giving him all he fucking has with his mouth. They touch and stroke and tease each other until both of them are panting and slick with sweat. Ian can’t remember the last time he was _this_ ready to go.

“Here,” Mickey presses a tube of lube and a condom into Ian’s hand. Ian’s not sure when he got these things or where they came from, but he doesn't really care. 

He slicks two fingers up and watches Mickey roll onto his stomach. The man’s ass is fucking perfect. Ian just takes a minute to look at it, bending down to drag his teeth along the curve of the cheek; Mickey shudders.

Then he settles up to Mickey’s side, pressing his body flush against his; when Mickey bends a knee out, Ian reaches down to start opening him up, using his slicked up fingers. 

“Look at me,” Ian breathes; Mickey does, resting his head on his folded arms. 

He watches Mickey’s face as he works his fingers into him, watches how his brows pull together, how his blue eyes threaten to close, but he’s fighting it. Mickey grunts and pushes back against Ian’s finger, drawing his bottom lip between his teeth.

“You look so good right now,” Ian tells him, working in a second finger. “So fucking tight, when’s the last time you got fucked, Mick?”

Mickey grins through a moan, “Been a — _fuck_ , right there— been a while.”

“How long?”

The brunette’s face tinges pink, “Thanksgiving.”

Something comes over Ian. A warmth in his belly that prompts him to work his fingers in a way that has Mickey gasping and burying his face in his arms, “You good?”

“Yeah, get on me.”

Ian breathes a laugh and slowly slips his fingers out of Mickey, “Turn over.”

While Mickey rolls onto his back, Ian makes quick work of getting the condom on and slicking it up with lube, stroking himself a few times, looking at Mickey. He’s so fucking beautiful, it isn’t even really all that fair.

“You gonna keep staring at me or…”

Ian raises his middle finger at Mickey and settles between his legs. He’s never had performance anxiety, but this has been building up for fucking months and months and the thought of being a bad fucking lay is really starting to mess with his head.

Mickey must have noticed the shift in Ian’s mood or something, because he propped himself up on an elbow and reached for Ian, hooking his hand behind his neck, tugging him down until Ian was covering him. Mickey kissed him deep, laying back, wrapping his legs around Ian’s waist, tugging fistfuls ofhis hair.

“Come on, don’t make me beg for that cock,” Mickey’s voice is low and thick against Ian’s mouth.

Thatsmug bubble forms in his chest, “What, you don’t think it’s a cock worth begging for?”

Mickey huffs out a shaky laugh, “It’s definitely worth it. It’s just that nine fucking months is a long ass time to be waiting for you to fuck me. So if you don’t mind getting the show on the fucking road, I’d really appreciate it.”

Ian grins, finding that confidence again. He reaches down to guide himself and pushes forward. And holy shit. Mickey is white hot and tight and perfect and, after what seemed like an eternity of slow pushing and listening to Mickey suck in labored gasps, the sound the brunette makes when Ian finally bottoms out is the only sound he wants to hear, ever.

“Fuck,” they both pant out at the same time.

It’s fucking perfect. Ian moves slow at first, drawing out these tortured sounds from the brunette, getting him riled up and quietly running his mouth for more, for harder, for faster. And finally, Ian gives it to him. 

He settles his hands on either side of Mickey, looking right into his face while he pushes harder into him. Mickey feels so good around him, so right. It’s like Ian’s body just moves without him having to tell it to, just pushes hard, jerking the whole bed with every thrust.

“Shit, right there,” Mickey chants over and over again.

“Yeah?” Ian gasps, feeling Mickey tighten around him. He thrusts hard, hitting a spot that makes Mickey arch and grunt under him. “That good for you, Mick?”

Mickey’s mouth hangs open, his eyes shutting tightly. No sound comes out, but his right leg trembles against Ian. Fuck it was hot. Ian watches as Mickey’s FUCK hand wraps tightly around himself, stroking in time with his thrusts.

Ian doesn't know how much longer he’s going to last. It’s all so much. Mickey looks so good, sounds so good, so fucking right. Everything about it is just _right_. Ian doesn't want to ever let go of the feeling, doesn't want Mickey to fuck anyone else, ever. 

He know’s its unfair of him, knows that he has no right, but the thought of someone else having Mickey like this puts his teeth on edge. It hadn't even been an issue with them, no one had been a blatant threat to take Mickey away from Ian. 

But even still, he didn't want anyone touching him, looking at him, kissing him. Fuck, if anyone kissed Mickey, Ian thought he’d actually die. That mouth was his. He worked for those kisses that Mickey gave him. 

Ian feels greedy and selfish, knew he was probably being a prick about it, but he really couldn't help what he thought or how he felt. He was… well, he was in love with Mickey Milkovich, and as much as he didn't want Mickey to be with anyone else ever again, he felt the same way about himself. The thought of someone other than Mickey was like acid in his mouth.

He’s completely lost again, his pace slowing, bending down to kiss Mickey, trying to stretch this out as long as he can, but he doesn't think he’ll last much longer. It’s just so much, he doesn't ever want to let it go, doesn't ever want to lose this.

“Mickey,” Ian starts, his voice straining with want. But he stops himself, because it’s completely _not_ the time. 

He feels Mickey’s free arm wrap around his shoulders, bringing him even closer, feels his hot breath against his face, against his ear. It’s fucking good, it’s so good. The way Mickey makes those breathy whines and arches under him is his undoing. Ian’s getting closer and closer to his edge. Mickey is too, he can tell.

“Ian, fuck,” Mickey screws his eyes shut, his whole body tensing up, bringing Ian out of his haze, catching his mind up with his body.

That wave of urgency comes on strong, setting every nerve ending on fire. Ian snaps his hips, “Gonna… ah fuck, fuck, fuck,” he gasps out.

But Mickey comes first, the sight alone shoving Ian over the edge. He shakes and jerks until he’s spent, falling to the side of Mickey, gulping down breaths of air, trying to anchor himself back down on earth. 

“Holy shit,” Mickey shudders, “Holy... shit.”

Ian just nods. Holy fucking shit is right. He slips out of bed, pads into the bathroom to throw away the condom and bring back a washcloth he found to clean them up with. They sit against the headboard of Mickey’s bed in their boxers, just listening to each other breathe.

There’s a comfortable silence that settles between them; Mickey’s hand grabs onto Ian’s, tangling their fingers together, his thumb rubbing little circles against the back of his hand. Ian grins at the gesture. It isn’t like Mickey to reach out himself and hold his hand like this. 

After a few more minutes, Ian hears the snap of a lighter. He looks over to see Mickey pulling on a cigarette, his eyes closed. Ian watches the way his mouth tightens around the cigarette, the way smoke bows out of his nose like one of those carton bulls. His bruises are light, with yellows and faded purples. Mickey’s still beautiful. 

Mickey’s eyes slowly open and he peers over at Ian, a grin spreading over his face, “What?”

Ian cracks a smile, squeezing Mickey’s hand, “You’re holding my hand.”

“Oh for the love of…” Mickey rolls his eyes, “Who is responsible for your lack of fucking chill? I want names.”

Ian just smiles.

 

* * *

 

Ian went home for the weekend. It was hectic and loud —kind of bittersweet. Ian loved his brothers and sisters, loved catching up with them. He always forgot how much he missed them. However, he didn't miss cramming into his old bed, listening to Carl and Liam softly snoring away. 

Saturday night, Ian huddled under his thin blankets like he was in high school again, texting a boy he liked late into the night.

 

[Ian 11:30 PM] You up?

[Mickey 11:32 PM] Yeah, I can’t sleep.

[Ian 11:32 PM] Me either.  
[Ian 11:33 PM] This bed is so fucking small and my little brothers snore.

[Mickey 11:35 PM] How long you staying there for?

[Ian 11:35 PM] Miss me already? ;)

[Mickey 11:36 PM] Nah, I was just going to finish your Pork Lo Mein if you weren’t coming back any time soon.  
[Mickey 11:36 PM] ;)

[Ian 11:37 PM] Asshole. I’m coming back Monday.

[Mickey 11:40 PM] Good.

[Ian 11:41 PM] You DO miss me.

[Mickey 11:42 PM] You’re so obnoxious.  
[Mickey 11:42 PM] Wanna go play pool with Iggy & Colin Monday night?

[Ian 11:43 PM] Yeah, sounds good.

[Mickey 11:44 PM] Can you play?

[Ian 11:45 PM] You mean I don’t get one of those sexy billiards lessons where you stand behind me and show me how to handle the stick?

[Mickey 11:47 PM] It’s a cue. And you handle a stick just fine.

[Ian 11:48 PM] You like the way I handle a stick?

[Mickey 11:49 PM] Yeah, I’m really trying but I can’t stop laughing at your awkward ass ‘you like the way I handle a stick’ lol jesus

[Ian 11:50 PM] Now you’re being obnoxious.   
[Ian 11:50 PM] Try again.

[Mickey 11:51 PM] I can’t, the moment is gone.

[Ian 11:55 PM] Did you jerk off today?

[Mickey 11:57 PM] lol uh… yeah.

[Ian 11:58 PM] What did you think about?

[Mickey 12:01 AM] You’ll think it’s weird.

[Ian 12:02 AM] I promise you I won’t.

[Mickey 12:03 AM] I was thinking of the way your hair looks between my fingers.

[Ian 12:03 AM] Like when you fist my hair when I’m sucking you off?

[Mickey 12:05 AM] Yeah. It’s fucking hot. Got me off so quick thinking of your mouth on me and your hair between my fingers like that. You should see how good you look like that, with your mouth wrapped around me.

 

Ian stared down at his phone, mouth open, eyes wide. Holy shit this was happening and that was good, it was so good. This. Was. Happening.

 

[Ian 12:06 AM] Oh my god. You’re killing me. I want you so bad.

[Mickey 12:08 AM] Goodnight Red ;)

[Ian 12:10 AM] ?????   
[Ian 12:11 AM] I hate you so much right now.

 

* * *

 

When Ian got back from South Side, he met Mickey at the little burger place on campus that served beer on tap. It was nice, just sitting together having lunch and talking about inane shit. Mickey was thinking of taking a couple courses during the summer, which Ian had been considering as well.

It wasn’t anything fancy and it wasn’t anything big, but this… being with Mickey like this… it was perfect. And of course, there was no hand holding or an other affectionate gestures —Mickey wasn’t ready for that, Ian didn't even have to ask to know that. But still, it was right.

Mickey’s favorite color is green —but he likes red and blue and orange too… he has a hard time picking just one. His favorite artist is Van Gogh, but not only because he was a great artist, but Mickey connected with him. He didn't know what he wanted to do after college, but in an ideal world, he’d make money doing what he loved most. 

They stayed in that little burger place for an hour after they finished eating, just talking. Ian didn't know Mickey had it in him to talk that much, for that long, but he wouldn't even dare make a comment about it.

Yeah. He was _so_ into Mickey. He was so in love with Mickey Milkovich.

 

* * *

 

Ian catches Mickey drawing him a few days later. He wakes up to the sound of light scratching on paper, opens his eyes and sees Mickey sitting next to the bed, sketch pad in his lap, cigarette hanging from his lips, his eyes darting to and from Ian. Mickey doesn't even realize that Ian is awake.

But Ian closes his eyes again, this warm bubble in his chest as he lets that scratching sound drift him back to sleep.

 

* * *

 

Ian has had more time to read since school ended. Being an English major, you’d think he would read all time time, but between work and studying, reading for enjoyment was kind of a pipe dream.

Luckily he has more time now. Mickey likes to sketch Ian while he’s reading. Then when he’s done, he lays next to him, stretching out against his side like a fucking cat until Ian finally gets the hint and wraps one of his arms around Mickey’s shoulders.

Mickey behind closed doors is one of Ian’s favorite Mickey’s. This Mickey is relaxed and has become more comfortable in his own skin. He kisses soft and hugs —and Ian is addicted to Mickey’s hugs, addicted to the way the shorter man makes him feel so incredibly safe. Mickey behind closed doors _cuddles_ , he wants to cuddle, seeks Ian out to cuddle.

It gets Ian right in the chest. He drops his book and slips down to wrap his arms around Mickey and they just lay there together, breathing each other in, limbs all tangled together, skin against skin. It’s perfect.

 

* * *

 

Ian runs his hand up the length of Mickey’s spine and hooks it over his shoulder, pulling back until Mickey’s back is flush against his front.

The brunette shudders and whines, reaching behind him with one hand to fist it in Ian’s hair. Ian groans, rocking his hips, wrapping one arm around Mickey’s waist, mouthing at his skin, tasting him, smelling him. His other hand wraps around the shorter man to gently curl his fingers around his throat, holding him still.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck…” Mickey grunts a hand flying down to wrap around himself.

Ian breathes heavy and knocks Mickey’s hand away from himself, wanting him to let go and come untouched.

“I can’t,” Mickey gasps out.

“Yes you can,” Ian pants in his ear, because it’s true. He pushes deep into Mickey, clenching his eyes because Mickey feel so fucking good and tight, but he steels himself not to lose control. He wants this for Mickey. “You’re doing so fucking good, Mick. Let me get you there.”

“I can’t. I —oh fuck— I need…”

Ian runs his hand all over Mickey’s body, up and down his sides and his stomach and lets, squeezing and scratching, the hand around the brunette’s throat tightening just a little bit, giving Mickey that slight edge he needs. Ian’s figuring out Mickey’s body very quickly, with how much they’ve been fucking.

“You don’t need it,” Ian reassures him, forcing his body to stay as calm as it can while he thrusts into Mickey. He keeps his voice as steady as he can, rasping softly, “I know you can do it, you’re so fucking good —show me how good you are, Mickey.”

Ian has been feeling out what get’s Mickey going the most, what makes him the hottest and most responsive. It was no surprise that telling him how good he was, was something that Mickey needed to hear. Ian had no problem giving him that, had no problem telling Mickey the truth. He was good. He was so fucking good.

“Let go for me, let me get you there,” Ian says before sinking his teeth into his shoulder, dragging them across the skin, sucking and biting at Mickey.

It’s intense, there’s no denying that; it’s intense and it immediately triggers Ian’s own release. Mickey comes with a fucking yell, shaking and tensing up before sagging against Ian’s body. 

Ian has to hold him up to keep from falling, all the while whispering how good Mickey did, how proud of him he was for letting go. He says this over and over again, rubbing at Mickey’s chest and stomach, dropping kisses on his shoulders.

After Ian cleans them up, Mickey falls asleep almost immediately, his furnace of a body pressed tightly against Ian’s back. The sheets are gross as hell, but Ian doesn't even care, drifting off to sleep with Mickey.

 

* * *

 

Mandy slipped her arm in Ian’s, taking a champagne flute from a passing tray, “I didn’t even know Mickey was doing another one of these.”

“I didn’t either,” Ian said, “Are we dressed up enough for this?”

“Fuck if I know. Don’t they have like… casual shows? Why can’t he be in one of those?” she sighed. “Where is his stuff?”

Ian looked around, still not seeing Mickey anywhere. The gallery was pretty packed, little groups of people taking quietly about the pieces of art situated around the space. This was a much bigger gallery than the other one and wasn’t, as far as Ian could tell, affiliated with the school. It hit Ian in the chest with a burst of pride. His — _boyfriend?_ — was showing his work out on his own.

“Maybe in the back?” Ian guessed.

An older woman stopped as she was walking past Ian and Mandy. She tilted her head for a moment, staring at Ian, “You’re him.”

Ian and Mandy exchanged a look, “I’m who?”

“Boy in the Sun,” she explained, motioning behind her. She then looked over to Mandy and smiled, “And you.”

Ian shook his head, “I’m so sorry, I don’t really know what you’re talking about…”

The woman pushed a strand of graying hair out of her face, her eyes crinkling in the corners, “The way he paints you is really something special. You can just… well, you can feel all that _love_ , you know? It’s really beautiful.”

Ian’s face fell with understanding, “Mickey painted me?”

“Oh my god,” Mandy squeezed his arm, “I’m sorry, can you please point us to where he’s set up?”

The woman nodded, pointing towards the back of the gallery, “Right hand side in the back,” she said. 

To say that the two of them _scrambled_ to the back of the gallery would have been absolutely accurate. Ian threw a _thank you_ back at the woman as Mandy pulled him away, weaving through the little gatherings of people. 

It was a challenge to get through the crowd in front of Mickey’s work, but Mandy made it happen, of course, saying excuse me in a very sweet voice, apologizing when she bumped someone’s elbow. But the woman was on a mission, so Ian followed her lead.

Mickey had a small collection of work, including the three paintings from the first show that Ian went to. But amongst the older paintings, were newer, more colorful ones. Including one of Ian, called Boy in the Sun.

“Shit,” Ian breathed, stepping up to the painting, his eyes wide as he tried to soak it all in at once, “Holy shit.”

It was in that usual grungy style of Mickey’s, but this time… full color. A side view of Ian laying in the grass, wearing a dark blue shirt, a small grin on his lips, hair and face lit up by the sun. His hair looked like it was made of fire, bright from the light and messy; the line of his profile was sharp and it looked like Mickey got every single freckle right.

It must have been a from when Mickey found him laying out, that day Mickey let Ian hold his hand outside. He couldn't take his eyes off of it. Mickey remembered everything about that exact moment; he hadn't been lying about a photographic memory. Ian’s whole body felt warm, his eyes prickling a little, in the best way. Mickey painted him and he did so… so fucking _beautifully_ , so carefully.

“Oh my god,” Mandy pressed into his side, squeezing his hand.

Ian finally tore his eyes away from Boy in the Sun and saw Mickey’s new self portrait. Mostly black and white, muted tones of color weaved through… but a relaxed expression on his face, his head slightly tilted to the side as if he just exhaled for the first time in his entire fucking life. His lips just barely parted, eyebrows resting. He looked… content. Mickey looked content.

_That_ was what got to Ian. Before he knew it, he was wiping at his eyes.

Mandy rubbed her hand up and down his arm, leaning over to whisper in a somewhat thick and wet voice, “You make him so happy. Thank you, gorgeous. Thank you so fucking much.”

Before Ian could even try to respond to that, a hand gripped his shoulder. Ian turned to see Mickey watching him carefully, seeming to be bracing himself.

“You gave yourself a face,” Ian said, his voice straining to stay steady.

Mickey frowned at him, reaching up to brush his thumb under Ian’s eyes, “Yeah, well you uh… you know. You helped.”

Ian took a deep breath, wanting to reach out and hold Mickey, wanting to kiss him. He ran a hand over his hair and gave the shorter man an easy smile. He loved him. He loved him. He loved him so much, “Mickey, I—”

“This is the boy!” A middle-aged man had come over and clapped a hand on Ian’s shoulder, gesturing towards the painting he was talking about.

Ian sighed, putting on a patient smile, “Yeah.”

Mickey’s eyebrows shot up as he looked at the man, clearly not appreciating the interruption but keeping his mouth shut.

“You know, I just can’t get over your style,” he told Mickey, his voice honest, “It’s dark and gritty, but so beautiful, I really love what you do with grayscale —but the color! Mr. Milkovich, your work with color is something truly inspirational, I can _only_ see you going forward in this world.”

“Wow,” Mickey’s face softened, “Thank you… thank you so much.”

The man nodded, looking between Ian and Mickey, “So you two are…”

Mickey smirked, looking over at Ian, “He’s my boyfriend.”

Ian stayed calm even though he was freaking the fuck out, because holy shit. Mandy did _not_  stay calm —Ian forgot that she was there, honestly, until she let out this little soft squeal and gripped his hand tightly.

“Beautiful,” the man smiled broadly, “I’ll let you two go, but I just wanted to let you know, Mr. Milkovich, that your work is just… stunning.”

Mickey dipped his chin down, his face flushing a little, “Thank you,” he said, watching the man walk away to the next artist’s work.

Ian tilted his head, looking at Mickey, this time unable to stop the ridiculous smile and the bubble of giddy, breathy laugher. “I’m your boyfriend?”

The shorter man rolled his eyes, “God, we _really_ need to work on your chill.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's a wrap :)
> 
> Thank you so much for all the support & love & comments, everything!  
> Thank you for sticking it out for this ridiculous slow burn. It was so fun to write :)
> 
> Xx


End file.
